Paradise
by Lorelai Pattern
Summary: AU, post-curse. She is the princess, the elusive daughter of Queen Snow White and King James, and he is just a wild wanderer, a lonely Huntsman with only his wolf brother for companionship.
1. The Beginning in the End

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

**Spoilers for the entire season**

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/|\

Once upon a time, there was a princess.

Now, this wasn't just any ordinary princess. She is Princess Emma, with her golden curls framing her face and her wide inquisitive blue eyes, and her unique stubbornness. The savior of all of the land, the hope, the one who relinquishes the hold of the Evil Queen's curse on all who live in their kingdom. She is the sun, the brightness, the light to everyone who has had the luck to know her.

The thing is, though, nobody remembers her.

Oh, there are a select few – such as Mary Margaret, who is cradling her bleeding husband, trying to kiss him awake. Her white dress fans out under her, and she feel a digging and painful soreness in her lower abdomen. Her hair is longer, slightly damp from sweat and hanging down past her shoulders. And then the man does awake, gasping, and clings to her, squeezing her to his body. She laughs breathlessly, and looks up at the magical wooden wardrobe. A baby sits there, gurgling happily, fists waving at the air, twisting back and forth in her customized blanket.

"David," She grins down at the man in her arms. "She did it. Emma did it."

He pulls her down for a kiss, and sits up. He looks slightly dazed, his hair rumpled, and he drags himself over to his daughter, picking her up in his arms and resting back next to his wife on the ground.

"Emma's amazing," He breathes to her, and his heart stutters in his chest just looking at her blinding smile. He rocks the baby, and hands her to the woman.

"Oh, Emma, my baby girl," Mary Margaret – now, returned to Snow White – coos gently, holding her close to her chest. "David – we're back. We're home."

He reaches up to cup her neck, his thumbs running across the apples of her cheeks. "It's James now, Snow. David's gone."

Snow blinks at him, her fingers curling at her squirming daughter. "I think... we'll always be Mary Margaret and David."

He grins at her, and leans forward to rest his forehead against hers. She sighs happily, cradling her in between their warmth. This is one of the happiest moments she can remember. She feels like she is floating, and the way James is looking at her, his eyes gleaming with tears that haven't been shed yet, she can tell he feels the exact same.

"Snow, what are you doing out of bed?"

Time seems to pop the bubble, and she looks up, dazed. Doc is looking down at her, his eyes puzzled, and then they widen almost comically at the blood on James's white shirt.

"What – why are you bleeding, James? And why is your daughter here..."

Snow's eyes widen, and she looks from her husband to the dwarf, her own eyes wide. "James he... tripped and I heard him shout. I got worried."

James nods along with her.

Doc scratches his scalp, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And you brought Emma, too?"

Snow stares at him with her mouth open, fumbling for a response, when James pipes up, "Uh, she didn't want to leave her alone. With the Evil Queen around, it seemed like a large risk."

Doc's eyebrows lift, his nose wrinkling. "I'm sorry, who?"

There is a dead silence, where both James and Snow's stomach fills with dread. She grabs James's arm, and throws Doc a smile. "He must've hit his head when he fell. Right?"

The last bit was forceful, and James swallows and nods in agreement. "Yes, of course."

The dwarf watches them, a look of amusement and confusion still across his features, before he shrugs. "Well, you just gave birth, Your Majesty. You should come back to your bed."

They scramble up, Snow leaning slightly on James, and they lie down in their bed, as close together as possible, holding the sleeping Emma.

"Nobody remembers the Evil Queen, Charming," Snow says, her head tilting back to look at him.

His hands rub against her arms. "Maybe this is a result of Emma breaking the curse. Nobody remembers the horrors Regina caused, here or in Storybrooke. All the happy endings she robbed from everyone..."

"Perhaps it is a blessing," Snow muses out loud. Emma clutches onto one of her fingers in her sleep, and she smiles down at her softly. "For all of us."

The two are quiet for a moment, before James speaks up, his voice catching in his throat. "Henry doesn't exist here."

Snow is immediately saddened, and she pulls herself closer to her husband. "Maybe one day, we will see him again. No one can be gone forever. But for now, our priority is Emma. To raise her like we couldn't before..."

"Anything for Emma," James agrees quietly, repeating his daughters name with a reverent voice.

They stay up all night, soothing, feeding, or changing their daughter when she awoke in a fit of tears, and just watched her, taking in her pink and delicate face, the gentle and cute slope of her nose, as well as the smattering of blonde peach fuzz at the top of her head, already starting to gently curl into spirals.

/|\

Emma is three and a half when there is the first assassination attempt.

Snow was roaming the castle gardens, holding Emma's hand as she giggles, picking up the odd flower or leaf and showing it to her mother, face splitting into a wide grin as she beams with child-like pride. The hot summer sun shines down on her golden hair, light reflecting off of it, and Snow watches in amazement as her daughter twirls around, carefree and happy, her dress shifting and bubbling up around her.

She's sitting down next to the fountain, absently reading a book as Emma tumbles around in the grass, when she hears a scream. Snow panics, throwing her book aside and leaps up.

"_Emma_!" She yells out, voice cracking slightly, panic consuming her.

The little girl in question starts crying, holding onto her left arm, blood seeping through her fingers. An arrow is embedded in the tree behind her. Guards are already pouring out of the castle as she runs and grabs her daughter, holding her as close as possible. A triage of arrows begin bombarding them, digging into the ground behind her feet, and she ducks into the castle.

Snow is panting, holding her crying daughter, when she hears the guards capture whoever the assailant was. But she hears his bone-chilling exclamation before he is dead.

"For the real Queen!"

She chokes back a sob for her own daughter, and carries her to the infirmary, murmuring comforting words the entire time, rocking her back and forth.

"No one will hurt you again, baby girl, I promise."

It's a saying that clings to her from the world with no happy endings, where every one used to be trapped. It pops up, unbidden and uncontrollable, in her head.

Promises are meant to be broken.

/|\

She's thirteen, smiling from on top of her first horse, her father holding onto the reins as she leads her around a specially set up ring with small jumps. Her hair is still long, still curly, and is still as bright as the sun. Hints of childish fat cling to the edges of her red cheeks.

"But Father," She rolls her eyes, fidgeting her large dress as the horse lopes around gracefully. "How am I supposed to canter quickly if I'm to be riding side saddle in a _dress_?" She sneers the word, her nose wrinkling with displeasure, making it sound like a forbidden cuss.

Her father slows the dappled gray horse, and grins up at her from under his lashes, a teasing smile spreading over his face. "I think you're too young to go that fast."

Emma puts on a faux pout, fighting to hide her own smile, and crosses her arms. "Mother wears trousers – even leather ones on occasion! And she can wander around the forests alone. Why can't I?"

James over exaggerates his sighs, before he lifts out his arms, stretching up towards her, and her own blue eyes light up and she grabs his shoulders. He lifts her up into the air, and pulls her down towards him. She laughs at the height, grabbing him to steady herself.

"Now, where do we get a pair of trousers for girls, Father?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but the sound of a sword unsheathing freezes them both. He whips around, his arm already pushing his daughter behind him, ignoring her surprised protests and squirms.

She gazes at the man in armor – a deep black color which radiates something malicious that makes her subconsciously gulp in fear and shrink backwards, away from the threat. Plumes sprout off the back of the midnight helm, and the black armor covers the bridge of their nose, keeping their identity unknown. Emma isn't sure where her father drew his sword from, but she watches in slight fascination as the two circle each other like predators.

"_My_ Queen wants her dead," The deep voice growls menacingly, sword gesturing with a jerk towards her own slight form. Icy cold pools in the pit of her stomach as she lets out a gasp.

"Your _Queen_ is the one who is dead." Her father calmly retorts back, his words spitting out at the armor-clad stranger.

She isn't sure where the idea comes from, but her hand slips behind her towards the saddle of her horse, reaching into the side bag, and pulls out a dagger. She slides it up her arm, holding it tight, careful to keep the blade away from her own skin to prevent damage, and hiding it from view.

"She's quite a tiny thing, isn't she? Not very appealing. One so small to destroy such a powerful Queen, our one and only Regina. "_Bring me her heart_," she said."

"Leave," Her father points his own sword at the intruder, eyes growing hard at the name, his grip firm around the blade. "Leave, before I kill you myself, rebel."

The eyes of the two men appraise each other almost clinically, and then they lunge, their swords parrying against each other with a loud metal clang. Emma backs up into the muscular legs of her horse, hand clutching the dagger tighter. The hilt of it digs into her skin.

She isn't sure why the other castle guards have shown up, and she cries out when the black knight pushes her father down and starts running at her. She stays still however, ignoring the tears streaming down her face and her overwhelming instinct to run, and her arm clenches in preparation. The eyes of the soldier are manic, a dark brown that seems to glow black. They are blank, empty of almost all emotion besides one: determination. Determination to kill her. A hand reaches out to her, and she looks at the creases in between the scarred and worn armor, throws her own arm back, and digs the dagger in between.

The man yowls, leaping away from her, the dagger still protruding from his arm awkwardly. Her father already is up off the ground, slamming the hilt of his sword onto the attacker's head and knocking him out. Suddenly, he is on his knees, holding her shoulders and gently shaking her, one hand cupping her cheek to make her look away from the body and look at him.

"Did he hurt you, Emma?" He sounds panicked. She shakes her head in a daze, looking back at the bleeding form of the man behind James.

"Who is the Evil Queen, Daddy?" She whispers, holding him closer. The childish name for him slips from her lips at a moment of severe weakness. "Why are they considered rebels?"

He doesn't answer her, only pulls her into his arms, carrying her to the castle. Her head is pressed into his shoulders, but her eyes are trained on the unconscious form of her assailant, already being hauled up by the castle guards. She blinks back at the scene, and all she can remembers is the red blood that drips down from his arm, soaking into the green grass.

/|\

She's lying in her bed, hours later, the open glass window blowing in cool wind from the night. Emma isn't asleep, though; she's staring at the stone wall of her bedroom, focusing on the heated conversation her parents are having just outside of her door.

"The rebels are getting closer, James!"

"You think I don't know that?" She hears her father hiss. A mental image of him running his hands through his short cropped hair pops into her head. "This is the second attempt. If she didn't get that knife from the –"

"_Knife_?" Snow interjects, her voice raising to a yell. "What knife? She had a_ knife_!"

He sighs patiently. Emma hears the shuffle of footsteps. "Well, it was more of a dagger, but –"

"You let Emma carry around a _dagger_?"

"Snow!" There is a tense moment of quiet, and when her father talks again, his voice is filled with patience. "I let her use my saddle for a lesson today. It was in the bag."

She hears a muffled thump; perhaps her mother slapping her own face and forehead with her palm. It seems like a weary gesture. "There is a small number of people in our kingdom who remember their other lives. They think Regina is their actual _Queen_. How are we supposed to protect Emma?" It's a whisper that sounds stricken.

The silence is deafening, and then James says, "We could keep her here."

"What, lock her in a tower for the rest of her life?" Snow replies scathingly. "That sounds like the other world's fairytale."

"She's safer here then she is anywhere else, Snow." He says fondly. There is another one of those silences where she knows her parents are staring at each other with loving and affectionate gazes, the kind that she feels like she has to turn away because she is encroaching in their private moment.

"Charming..."

She then hears footsteps, and their words become slurs of indistinguishable sentences as they walk down the hall, presumably to their own bedroom.

Emma stares at the wall, her thoughts whirling around her head, moving too fast to form into a plausible thought or theory.

A wolf howls at the moon, and the sound echoes around her sanctuary. Strangely, the noise seems to comfort her.

/|\

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**Welcome to my new story! I know, no Graham in this chapter... but this story has turned into a beast. It's already 16,000 words... and counting. Another bit of information, English is not my first language! Just some background information: AU, post-curse... and, like Snow said, there are some who are unhappy with being returned to Fairy Tale Land and think Storybrooke is their happy ending. More will be revealed in later chapters. This story also assumes that Graham is Emma's happy ending and vice versa.**

**Here's a snippet of the next chapter:**

**" **"He is actually my brother."

Her head whips to look at him. He is already half embarrassed, looking away from her and at the counter.

"Who?" She asks, sticking a whipped cream covered finger into her mouth.

"The wolf."

She blinks at the Huntsman several times, staring at him, and he eventually looks up at her through his eyelashes to meet her gaze. Emma opens her mouth, and –

– _prison cells, I'm afraid Miss Swan you're under arrest again, leather jackets, Sometimes cliches are true, doughnuts, What's with the siren, It's so hard to get your attention, sheriffs badges, You have a heart, I need to feel something, Why do you care how I look at you – " **"**_

**Oh-ho, what is Emma having flashbacks of?**

**And concerning the age difference, since this is AU I've made Graham not even a year older than her because... well, they are each others happiness and the curse restores all the happy endings. More will be revealed in later chapters. :D But don't worry... he's not going to be a pedophile.**

**Please leave a review!**


	2. The Meeting

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

**Spoilers for the entire season, AU and post-curse**

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And now she is seventeen. Her body has grown into itself, and she now boasts a womanly figure: gentle sloping curves, all traces of baby fat gone. Her hair isn't down to her waist anymore; instead it stops at the top of her full but modest breasts, still shining bright and still as curly as ever. A dark cloak is thrown over her bright dress, covering her hair, and she's halfway out her window, clinging to the man-made grooves in the stone, as well as the ivy. She grunts from the effort, and freezes when the door to her bedroom opens.

"Your Highness, I– oh my gods!"

Emma has the decency to look sheepish, even though her heart is pounding with anxiety: for being caught, as well as being several stories up from the ground. Her eyes appraise her trusted handmaiden, Delly, who is holding a wicker basket of her washed dresses, mouth dropped open.

They stare at each other for several moments, her foot dangling in the air, before she blurts out, "This isn't what it looks like, Delly."

Delly ran her free hand through her black hair. "Er...Your Highness, excuse me for being so blunt –"

"It's fine, Delly, you know you can be frank with me. And I've told you before, it's Emma," She chastises teasingly, smiling at her. A gush of cool air pulls at her cloak, rocking her body back and forth. It's dangerous, the feeling of being so high up without some kind of tether, but exhilarating.

"Emma," she repeats slowly, as if she is humoring her, and places her basket on the messy bed. Pillows were placed strategically under the covers, to look like she is sleeping there. "You know it is unsafe for you to leave the castle grounds."

Emma doesn't respond for several moments, only looks down to the ground to judge the distance. She looks back up at her friend and personal handmaiden. "I would only be gone for an hour or two."

"That's besides the point, Emma. Your parents ordered you to never leave without protection or some kind of guards."

The princess leans her hooded head against the gray stone window sill, her dress and cloak flapping in the breeze.

"But they have never told me _why_ I can never leave," She grumbles, her voice filled with disappointment. "My only home is a prison."

Delly is quiet, as if she is choosing her next words carefully, and she sits on the window ledge, resting her head on the other side of the window sill, calmly watching her. "You know they have their reasons, Emma. It is all for your safety."

Her friend's words start to cause another guilt trip, but she doesn't deny it. She knows her parents always have their reasons; and then she shakes her head adamantly.

"How am I supposed to rule the kingdom one day," she questions, her voice soft, half with defeat and half with exhaustion. "if I have never met most of it's people?"

The two sit in companionable silence, and Emma hears a wolf howl. She perks a little miniscule amount – she has heard the howl her entire life, and has grown familiar with its tones and moods just through the sound of its voice. Tonight, it is content. She zones out for several seconds, caught up in a strange sense of nostalgia and train of thoughts involving wolves. The sound of footsteps echoing outside her room in the corridor shakes her from her slight stupor, and she realizes she's still hanging from the window, several stories up. Her grip inadvertently tightens on the 'sill, and she looks up at Delly, who is watching her intently.

"Two hours," Delly finally says, slowly and reluctantly.

Emma's entire face brightens up, and a giddy laugh escapes from her throat.

"Oh, Delly!" She squeals, pulling the woman in for a close hug with one arm, the other clutching the window sill for balance. "Thank you! Thank you!" Her eyes flick to the clock in the corner of her room. In two hours, it would be around one in the morning. She blinks, gripping the wall and backing down it, her feet digging into the grooves to ease herself down. Her hands grip the strong vines.

And then she drops, disappearing from Delly's eyesight. Delly gasps aloud and leans out the window, only to see Emma hanging from a strong vine, a smirk on her face.

"Scared you, didn't I?" The princess grins up at her.

Delly huffs. "That wasn't funny, Your Highness."

Emma snorts in an unladylike fashion at the sound of her royal title. "It was, and you know it."

Delly smiles at her, and Emma's lips pull back into an even brighter smile. Her handmaiden lets out a sigh, then looks back at the door. "Two hours, Emma. Don't make me regret this."

"You won't." Emma vows, her voice firm.

"Be safe," Delly finally whispers back.

And then the darkness swallows her up, and Delly leaves the window open a crack. Emma is grinning the entire way down the vines, and her feet land on the grass quietly. Her trusted gray horse whinnies slightly from surprise where she had left it earlier that evening. One hoof digs into the ground, continuously pawing at it anxiously. Emma quiets her with a quick stroke, finger nails lightly scratching, but pleasantly, and grips the reins tightly. She pulls herself onto the saddle, relishing in the feeling of riding with both legs on different sides, her cloak fanning out behind her.

She clicks the insides of her teeth at the horse, heels tapping gently at the hindquarters of her steed, and they were off. She feels exhilarated at the freedom, at the ground moving beneath her, and she laughs quietly to herself. About half and hour into her journey, she comes upon a small village, and she smiles. Most of the small and quaint houses are dark. The only sound can be heard from the chickens and other farm animals in their backyards and coops.

The quiet is almost eery and unsettling, but she welcomes it with open arms; the castle is always so loud and full of constant movement and visitors. The only establishment teeming with activity was a small restaurant and bar. Her hand snakes towards her pocket, and fingers the money she finds there. After she ties up her horse and slides him a carrot, she pushes the wooden door open, holding her breath.

It isn't as dramatic as she thinks it would be. Hardly anyone had looked up at her, the new stranger who is passing through this small village. Emma releases her breath shakily, and slides into an unoccupied seat at the bar counter. A woman with an extremely low-cut and revealing dress waltzes past her, muttering a quick, "Be right with you," as she breezes over to the man sitting several seats down, hunching over a filled and large plate. From behind her waves of blonde hair and cloak, all she sees is curly brown hair and a muscular form hidden underneath furs and worn leather. She blinks several times and turns away hastily, looking at her intertwined hands on the counter.

The barkeep woman leans provocatively towards the man, her breath becoming humorously deep. "Need anything else, Huntsman?"

The Huntsman hardly looks up from his meal, shaking his head. Emma smothers a grin with her hand, and the woman huffs dramatically and begins walking towards her. She holds back a sneeze at the strong and overwhelming perfume the other woman exudes as she draws closer.

"What can I get you?" She asks coldly, idly playing with her dishwater colored hair.

Emma smiles politely, racking her brain for a typical and respectable response. She doesn't drink alcohol, so she orders something that pops into her mind and is comforting. "Hot chocolate, please. With cinnamon, if that is at all possible."

The nameless woman snorts. "You're in a seedy bar late at night, and all you want is _hot cocoa_?"

Emma wants to shoot back with a scathing sarcastic response, but she holds her tongue, unfamiliar with this situation. "Yes. With cinnamon." She says slowly, emphasizing the words.

The supposed Huntsman smothers his deep chuckle with a cough. The sound fills her stomach with butterflies, and she shifts almost awkwardly in her seat. The waitress shoots her a glare, and walks away without a word, her high heels clicking against the dirty hardwood floor. Movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention, and her eyes flick towards the Huntsman arm, which was reaching down towards the floor, dropping leftovers. She watches, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Then a muzzle comes out of the shadows from underneath the counter and snatch up the meat, teeth cutting through the bone. She sees its eyes, one blue and one red, and the shape of its ears and gray neck. She gasps in surprise, but quickly begins to smile down at the wolf – she had never seen one in person, only heard them from the privacy of her bedroom. The wolf licks its jowls to savor the remains of its meal, before looking up at her. The two stare at each other for a moment, before it comically opens its mouth in a canine grin, tongue lolling out to the side. Her own grin grows wider at the sight. She hears a seat shift next to her so she looks up at the sound, and freezes.

The Huntsman is looking at her intently. Emma looks at him, trying to distinguish his eye color – it is blue, but then not at the same time, almost a hazel that smolders at her and threatens to turn her into a pile of goo. He doesn't seem much older than her, maybe even a year or two. She sees recognition flare in his eyes, but then its gone before she fully understands it, only to be replaced with curiosity. The lower half of his face of covered in a light layer of scruff; she has the strange urge to reach out and run her hands over to feel the texture. She blushes at the intensity of his stare, her lips parting a miniscule amount.

But then the wolf heaves itself to its feet, loping towards her with casual grace, and she looks down at it, smiling, and then up at its supposed owner. Her hand reaches out to stroke its fur, but she cocks her head and looks at him, a silent question of _may I_?

She thanks her lucky stars that the Huntsman also seems adept at silent conversations, and he nods his head in permission. Her hands automatically reach down and stroke the wolf, and it pants happily.

"Hi, boy," She whispers down at it. She heard the distinct sound of a tail wagging, and hitting the floor with a methodical _thump, thump, thump_.

"He doesn't – he usually doesn't take well to strangers," He finally says, and his voice sounds almost hoarse from disuse. His accent is more pronounced, and she wonders vaguely where he is from. She looks up at him and smiles.

"Animals naturally gravitate towards me," Emma shares, thinking about the natural affinity her mother has. She ruffles the top of the wolf's head. "I get it from my mother."

She isn't sure whether to interpret the look he gives her as mere curiosity or awe.

Suddenly, a mug of hot chocolate is slammed in front of her, droplets of brown liquid staining the wooden counter. The waitress stomps off without a word, and Emma pulls her hands from the wolf reluctantly, and wraps them around the drink. The warmth seeps into her cold fingers, and she raises it to her lips and sips at it lightly. She feels the hot beverage pool down her throat and into her stomach. It burns slightly, but not uncomfortably. It is thick and definitely filled with cinnamon, but she loves the taste regardless.

"He is actually my brother."

Her head whips to look at him. He is already half embarrassed, looking away from her and at the counter.

"Who?" She asks, sticking a whipped cream covered finger into her mouth.

"The wolf."

She blinks at the Huntsman several times, staring at him, and he eventually looks up at her through his eyelashes to meet her gaze. Emma opens her mouth, and –

– _prison cells, I'm afraid Miss Swan you're under arrest again, leather jackets, Sometimes cliches are true, doughnuts, What's with the siren, It's so hard to get your attention, sheriffs badges, You have a heart, I need to feel something, Why do you care how I look at you –_

Her hands reach up to her head, throwing off the hood and letting her blonde curls cascade down her back. She lets her own fingers dig into her scalp. Emma sits there in that position for several minutes, her body quivering slightly. The Huntsman had already turned back to his food, and hopefully didn't notice her momentary mental crisis and break down.

She gulps down the rest of the hot chocolate, now at room temperature, and looks at the muddy remains of the powdered cinnamon caked at the bottom of the mug. She looks up at the clock, and already time has gone by so fast. She only has about half an hour to get back to the castle. Her hands reach into her pockets for the appropriate amount of coins to pay her tab, when an overly loud and obnoxious voice echoes around the small room.

"They're lettin' animals here now, huh?"

Emma grits her teeth. She sees the Huntsman's hand clench around his own drink and fork as well. The wolf is sitting in between them, looking at the source of the voice with his teeth bared– a small and dirty man, and from the looks of his worn clothes, another hunter.

More voices spread across the bar, rumors spreading around like wildfire.

"...hear he's been raised by the wolves."

"Barely even human. No emotions..."

"...abandoned by his own family when he was just a babe..."

Emma spares a look over at the Huntsman, pity and fury stabbing at her own heart. His shoulders were hunched from suppressed rage, but he wasn't looking at her, or even her reaction to the gossip. She's surprising herself, because she _wants _him to look at her. Some part of her thinks he couldn't bare it if she would join the mocking of his brother or his lifestyle as a whole.

"I heard he weeps over his kills," The man announces to the bar, and saunters over to them. She wrinkles her nose at the strong stench of alcohol that wafts over to their corner. "Tell me, Huntsman, what kind of a man cries over a dead animal?"

Emma surprises herself when she stands up towards the intruder, her face sporting a glare as she snarls back fiercely, "An honorable one."

Both of them look at her, astonished that she even stood up. The astonished look quickly fades from the cocky drunkard, who throws her away with lazy but strong push of his arm. "None of your concern, little lady." He sneers down at her.

Emma stumbles backwards from the force, caught off guard, her feet catching on the edge of her stool as she topples over and lands on her behind, arms splayed out behind her. The Huntsman is up barely a second after she falls, hand at his dagger and weapon drawn. The wolf snarls from behind him, his hackles raised.

"What kind of a man pushes around a woman?" The Huntsman mocks the other man's earlier sentiment with a growl, even sounding like one of his own wolf brothers.

The drunkard seems to get delight from this. "Oh, so he does have feelings! And for a sweet little thing too," He leers at her momentarily, before pulling out his own dagger. The wolf advances on the stranger, and he backs off. "Call your pet off."

"He isn't a pet. He has a good and pure heart, unlike yourself."

The man seems to ignore this. "Do you know what I do with pets and women who threaten me?" There is a cold laugh that comes from his throat, and the hairs on the back of Emma's arms and neck raise. She can feel the hatred rolling off the Huntsman in waves from her position on the floor, sitting and holding herself up with her gloved hands.

This is obviously the climax of whatever monologue the drunkard seems to be going off on. Emma notices that half the bar is waiting with bated breath, leaning forward, eyes riveted.

"I hang the pets on my wall and put the women in my bed."

The Huntsman and his wolf brother seem to move at once and in a fluid motion; he lunges with his dagger and the wolf with his own natural weapon, his teeth. The drunkard has deceivingly fast reflexes, and his own knife digs into the side of the wolf and knocks him aside. The wolf yelps and slides across the dirt and hay covered floor and stops when he hits the wall roughly.

She watches it with panicked eyes, fearing the worst, when suddenly he crawls to his paws and limps out of the tavern and into the darkness, blood dripping down its pelt. Emma struggles to her own feet, and looks at the Huntsman, who had stabbed the drunkard in the shoulder, who was now laying on the floor, bleeding and howling in pain. (She wishes she can feel regret for the wounds the monster has gained, but she doesn't.)

The Huntsman is now fighting off the drunkard's few friends, and was easily tossing them into a mirror and hurling them over the counter. The two meet gazes for several moments, and she knows what she wants to say, but at the same time she doesn't and he clearly is too busy to talk, so she rushes past the chaos and flies out the door and into the cool night. Cricket chirps echo around her as she absentmindedly pats her clearly startled horse, who whinnies with fright. Her eyes follow the bloody animal footprints that go off into the bracken and into the woods.

She looks back, still hearing the sound of the tavern fight, and she takes off into the forest without looking back.

/|\

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**I am overwhelmed with all the positive feedback this story of mine has been getting! Thank you all so much for the reviews, I really appreciate it! Anyway, I hope you guys like this chapter. If it hasn't been cleared up already, here it is again : The Huntsman and Emma are the same age, not even a year or two apart. Another thing, English isn't my first language, please excuse any mistakes!**

**Here is a snippet of the next chapter:**

**"**_ He ignores her as he blurts out, "I know you."_

_ "Of course you do." She replies seriously, blinking at him. She knows him, she's seen him before; how could she not know him?_

_ "From where?" His voice is soft._

_ "I don't know."_

_ "But how?"_

_ "I don't know!" Her voice raises, and they are both panting at their rapid fire paced conversation. His wolf brother's ear twitches as he looks up at them almost irritably for interrupting his sleep. She turns away from the Huntsman and strokes the wolfs fur, her thoughts pounding around in her head, and it gives her a splitting head ache. _**"**

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	3. The Remembrance

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

/|\

It isn't exactly hard to track a wounded and dazed animal. The poor lupine seems to have stumbled around the woods, bleeding and tearing down brambles as it dragged itself onwards. Emma examines the paw prints carefully, following them along with her back hunching over the dirt to make sure she doesn't miss one. She eventually reaches a small clearing, with what looks like a small sleeping mat and the smoking remains of a fire pit are spread out around her.

_This must be his temporary camp_, She thinks to herself, her eyes training onto the form of the wolf splayed out on his side, panting. She runs over towards him automatically, and she slides her knees across the dirt and the fallen leaves to a halt beside the whining animal.

"Hey, boy," she whispers, pulling off her gloves. Her palm finally meets the fur of the wolf, and he keens in pain, legs flailing back and forth. Her hand ghosts over the stab wound, and she almost begins to whimper herself as blood wells up in between her fingers. She isn't experienced in healing injuries herself, much less stab wounds. She looks up, eyes searching the camp, and staggers to her feet and grabs the makeshift water skin, shaking it. Water sloshes around inside of it, and she crouches back next to the wolf, pouring the water across the wound.

She feels him wince underneath her fingers again as she empties the canteen. "I'm sorry," she whispers, repeating it like a mantra over and over under her breath. The bleeding is still coming strong, and she panics, ripping off some strips at the bottom hemline of her dress. She balls it up in her palm and applies it to the wound with pressure. The wolf yelps, and she jumps and whimpers along with him, repeating her apologies.

Emma is so engrossed with her self-appointed job she doesn't notice another presence join her and her makeshift patient until another figure crouches next to her, slightly disheveled, and she jumps, her eyes wide with surprise.

The Huntsman looks at her, fear and awe mixing in his eyes. Fear was understandable and genuine – his brother is injured, that she understands quite well, the fear of death. What she doesn't understand, however, was the awed expression he seems to wears when he is looking at her. She turns back down to look at her new patient.

"You would follow him into the dark forest just to save him," He begins quietly, his own hand running along his brother's furry and pointed ears. "even though you don't know him?"

Emma's hands squeeze the torn fabric in her hand, keeping steady pressure on the wolf. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

She feels his gaze on the side of her face, and she's sincerely hoping that she isn't blushing. The two sit in a long silence, before she quietly asks, "Will your brother be okay?"

His answer is short and terse. "I don't know."

She inwardly flinches at his tone, but nods along anyway. She thinks the blood is slowing down, but she doesn't really know and she fears that if she voices her thoughts aloud, he may either shoot them down or she would be wrong. The strange eyes of the wolf look at her with a pleading expression, and her own eyes search his face, and she notices the apparent lack of white fur around his muzzle and face from age.

"Did you grow up with your... brother?" Emma questions, her thumb running over the ribs of the wolf.

The Huntsman remains silent and starts to look almost nostalgic before he replies, "He's the son of my first brother, the one who I grew up with," He pauses, and takes in a shaky breath. "He became ill. But his mate had one pup, and I raised him and he became my brother. And then..." he trails off, and gestures to the wolf at their feet.

Emma takes a second to digest the information, before she whips her head around, curls bouncing, to look at him head on. "Wait, you have an entire pack?"

The Huntsman nods grimly, his entire face darkening. "We did. Of about seven."

"What happened to them?" She whispers, fear blossoming in her gut at his expression.

"Slaughtered," He says hoarsely, looking pained. "for their furs."

Both of their hands are bloodstained at this point, so she sees no harm and slides her hand across and places it on top of his own. She can see and feel him pull back slightly and twitch his own fingers from the unfamiliar contact, but she gives him a firm squeeze, and he stills.

It takes her several moments, but she notices that a drop of red rolls down his cheekbones and into the scruff of his beard. Her hand slides back, away from clutching to his own, and she sees a hurt expression cross his face, and she roots around in her cloak pocket before pulling out a yellow handkerchief.

"You're bleeding," she chastises him gently, and she presses the soft cloth against his cheek.

This time she really feels him jump, but he quickly settles back down. She is determined not to meet his eyes, so she stares at her own hand. But then her eyes flick up to his, and she freezes at his expression and his eyes. Her stomach turns into puddles of emotional mush, and she is caught up in the thoughts of what exact color is his eyes again, when they're blue and then this hazel that seems to burn straight through her.

His hand reaches up slowly to cup the back of hers against his face, and when she feels his warm fingertips sticking out from his fingerless leather gloves, she blushes a bright pink at the tingles shocking her nerves system. His skin is slightly sweaty, she thinks to herself, but that is okay because hers are ice cold and numb. His mouth is open, and he has that look on his face that makes her feel like she is as radiant as the sun or as bright as the full moon.

But then his wolf brother whines again, and she tears her hand away from under his palm, letting him cup the handkerchief to his own cut. The strip of dress is already soaked through with blood, so she tosses it away, and frantically begins to rip at the bottom of her dress again. The Huntsman next to her watches silently from his position, beginning to flip open his worn bag. He crushes leaves in his hand, before giving her the sweet-smelling healing herbs. She accepts them quickly, pushing the pulp into the wound and placing her new torn dress scraps on top of it.

"Are you always harassed so whenever you go into a town?" Emma asks him, trying to fill the lull in their conversation.

He shrugs almost nonchalantly. "Yes."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Where exactly have you been all your life?" He grunts harshly. She winces as he continues, "Folks around here aren't exactly welcoming to those who run wild with wolves."

"Well, I wasn't mean to you," Emma grits her teeth, ignoring his defensive jab at her.

"I don't know anything about you," He pulls the handkerchief away from his cheek. "All I know is your name. Emma."

The girl in question feels like the ground has been pulled from beneath her feet, but her toes curl at the sound of her name rolling from his lips. "Who told you that?"

"No one," It was the first time she has seen the Huntsman smirk. "it is embroidered on your handkerchief." He lifts the piece of cloth so it is eye level with the both of them.

Emma looks down, embarrassed. "There is nothing else to know."

She turns away from him completely now, ignoring him, and lifts the torn fabric of her dress off of the wolf. The herb juices seemed to have helped to some extent; he isn't bleeding, and his colored eyes seem to be more alert.

"Oh, I doubt that," The Huntsman murmurs, half musing to himself at her response. She awkwardly shifts on her feet as he turns away. She hears the tell tale signs of a fire being started, and she lets out a relieved sigh as the cold air was chased away from the radiating warmth of the fire. He crouches next to her. Rhythmically, she strokes her left hand over and over across the wolf's fur, slowly tempting the animal into sleep.

The question bursts from her, blurting it without thinking about the consequences. "What is your name?"

"I've never been given one."

_There is nothing else to say to that, then_. She thinks to herself. If he didn't want her to pry into his life, then she wouldn't. Her unoccupied hand reaches towards the blood-soaked scraps of her dress, and she tosses them carelessly into the fire. The new additions and wood make the fire crackle strangely for several moments, before it becomes quiet again.

"My... apologies about your ruined dress." The Huntsman concludes awkwardly. The wolf next to her snorts with one of his legs twitching, half asleep.

"Don't worry about the matter. I have plenty."

His head tilts sideways slightly, as if he is interested. "Do you really?"

Emma looks up to meet his eyes, almost warily. The fire reflects in his eyes, turning them almost black, the dark iris consuming whatever color he possessed.

What he is about to do is something she never suspects, though.

He leans forward so he is crouching next to her and his brother, the fire contrasting and creating shadows across his scruff and high cheekbones. She blinks at him, and his hand reaches forward.

"Your dress seems much too expensive for you to be a peasant," He murmurs to her, his accent drawing out the words and making the consonants resound pleasantly in her ears. Absently, his callused fingers reach out and trap the fabric of her dress and cloak in between his finger tips.

"So you must be nobility," He concludes with a rough voice. His breath caresses her face, and she finds herself leaning forward unconsciously. Their faces are barely inches apart, and Emma starts to feel lightheaded from her lack of breath.

His hand is still resting on her crouched leg from where he was holding the dress, just barely stroking her upper thigh with his thumb. No self-respecting gentleman in the Court had ever dared to touch her there – she was the princess, the elusive daughter of Queen Snow White and King James. And he was just a wild wanderer, a lonely Huntsman, with only his wolf brother for companionship.

Fire blooms and spreads through out her veins, and she feels his fingers tighten a miniscule amount, digging into the skin of her thigh and muscle. Her own hands clutch at the thick fur of the collapsed wolf next to her, eyes closing at the foreign sensations. She opens her mouth to speak, to break the hypnotic silence, but instead a shaky and quiet gasp escapes her throat.

She is sure her face must be stained and flushed with red to such a degree that she resembles a tomato, but she feels so delirious at this point that she doesn't particularly care. His hand is slowly rubbing in a circular pattern against her skin, as if he is massaging her. She feels herself beginning to tremble.

"You have presumed correctly, Huntsman," Emma whispers finally, and for one moment she can feel his breathing stop and his hand clutch onto her as if she is the only thing keeping him grounded right in this moment–

– _grave yard, a dark crypt, He's the only one making any sense, It's my heart Emma I need to find it, It's the only thing that explains why I don't feel anything, Feel that that is your heart, running wolves, No it's just the curse, I remember, Thank you _–

But then his presence is suddenly gone, backing away from her own form, cool night air separating them. She isn't sure if she is imagining it, but as he stumbles backward she can hear him mutter, "_dear gods,_" with a dazed expression, disbelief coloring his tone. Her words seems to have startled them out of their own private bubble. She regrets coming back to this harsh and cold reality.

"What the hell was _that?_" He whispers half to himself, running his hands through his already rumpled and curly hair.

Emma tries not to be distracted by his action or the way his hair looks positively messy and yet still looks appealing.

"You saw it too?" She asks in disbelief.

He ignores her as he blurts out, "I know you."

"Of course you do." She replies seriously, blinking at him. She knows him, she's seen him before; how could she not know him?

"From where?" His voice is soft.

"I don't know."

"But_ how_?"

"I don't know!" Her voice raises, and they are both panting at their rapid fire paced conversation. His wolf brother's ear twitches as he looks up at them almost irritably for interrupting his sleep. She turns away from the Huntsman and strokes the wolfs fur, her thoughts pounding around in her head, and it gives her a splitting head ache.

"I should go," She finally whispers, and his head snaps up. He looks almost panicked, and her eyes squint back at him in confusion.

"But how will I find you again?" The Huntsman is almost pleading now.

She doesn't answer, only brushes some invisible dirt and dust off of her dress as she stands up. Her ankles are visible from her tearing off the fabric earlier, and she relishes in the slight and small freedom. She looks down at his wolf brother, and his tail is thumping as he looks back up at her. She smiles slightly, and turns on her heels and begins walking in the direction she came from.

"You won't," She calls back to him, but she still faces forwards. She isn't sure what will happen to her resolve if she looks back at him and his expressive eyes.

Emma swears she can feel his gaze burning holes into the back of her head. She swallows and steels her chin, and continues marching forward with purpose, away from the confusing events and visions plaguing their minds.

He doesn't follow her, but she hates herself for wishing and wanting him to.

/|\

Climbing back up to her room turns out to be more of a challenge then climbing down. But she maneuvers herself quickly and efficiently up the stone wall and ivy leaves. She's careful to keep her mind and thoughts blank and away from the events of tonight. Finally, the princess reaches her window and she swings it open, throwing her leg over the side of the window sill. Her hazel eyes search her room and they rest on the half asleep form of her handmaiden Delly, slouching as she rests on her bed.

"Delly?" Emma whispers, her hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. Delly jumps from her fitful sleep, her eyes panicked.

"Emma!" She whispers and yells at the same time, stumbling to her feet, almost tripping over her own dress. "You're almost an hour late!"

"Sorry," She replies, not sounding apologetic at the least.

Delly continues anyway. "I was so close to summoning the guards to go collect you. Do you know how much trouble you would have been in if –"

Emma hates how the word _collect_ makes her sound like a piece of property or a wayward pet that keeps running away.

"Yeah, Delly, I got it." She replies almost viciously, her words short and clipped. However, she instantly regrets it, and there is a long pause where the two stare at each other.

Delly curtseys stiffly, her brown eyes cold. "Good night, Your Highness."

The door slams, and she collapses on her bed, her head resting in her hands as she takes deep breaths, in and out. She hears the wolf howl from the forest, and now she knows who exactly that animal is.

The wolf sounds mournful.

/|\

* * *

**I'm anxious to see whether or not you guys liked this chapter. and there is plenty more left to the story; I just broke 18,000 words a couple of minutes ago. My beta didn't seem to find anything grammatically incorrect about this chapter, but if there is, please excuse my English!**

**Here's a piece of the next chapter:**

**" **_"But this is the real world!" Emma protests, half of the words flying over her head as she stubbornly clings to the notion that nothing other than her home is the only one that could ever exist._

_"A real world," He corrects her, looking extremely amused. His statements sound rehearsed and recorded, as if he has already said them before and is just repeating them again for emphasis. "How arrogant are you to assume that yours is the only one?"_

_The words are so familiar as they bounce around in her head, and she gasps aloud at the sensation as it flashes behind her eyes, clear enough to be felt but fuzzy enough she can't determine their origin._

_"You've said this to me before," She says. "_ **"**

**Guess who is making an appearance next chapter? Someone a bit mad, perhaps?**

**Please leave a review!**


	4. The Mad Man

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

/|\

Emma is already up, eaten, and dressed before dawn the next morning. She is practically storming down the hall towards her parents bed room, and she kicks the door open. It slams against the wall, and her mother and father sit up in bed.

The light from the hallway pours into the bed room. She crosses her arms, and her mother flops back onto the bed with a loud sigh.

"You startled me, Emma." Snow's voice is muffled by her pillow. Her father sits up, cautiously watching her.

"I want you to teach me how to use a bow."

They stare blankly back at her, and she starts to feel nervous, but she doesn't turn away from their confusion. She looks back at them, being careful not to blink. They look at each other, and do that silent communication technique that she wishes she can perfect – her mind goes right back to how the Huntsman and her were just so in sync, and she shuts that thought right down before it can go any farther.

The two of them nod in unison, and her entire body relaxes as she practically skips out of their bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.

She starts off her training with the other knights at the castle, who scoff and laugh at her attempts of sword fighting. She isn't very good with swords, but she soon excels with the bow, much to the shock of the knights.

They're watching her struggle with her technique, and at first she misses the target completely. She reddens slightly at their loud and obnoxious guffaws; she strings an arrow angrily, pulling it back to her ear, her elbow jutting out behind her and almost level with her ear. She's too angry to hear their mocking anymore, and she lets out a slow breath. Her hand releases the arrow, and it flies through the air.

It hits one of the outer rims of the center circle with a satisfying thump.

The knights are silent in astonishment, and she allows a smirk to cross her features as she strings another arrow. This one barely hits the other arrow already imbedded into the target. She finishes her supply of arrows, all of them in one tight circle on the target. She allows herself to plaster a pleased grin across her face, and she reaches to put the bow around her shoulder and –

– _What the hell you could have hit me, I never miss, darts, a strange restaurant, You've been avoiding me since last night when you _–

She gasps aloud, her hand flying up to cup her forehead. She can feel herself trembling slightly, and she turns and walks out, ignoring the confused stares of the knights. She finally reaches her room and she slams it shut, sinking back against the dark wood, holding her head in her hands.

She is going insane.

/|\

Eventually, Emma masters the bow and arrow, and is able to hit a bulls eye on a target from far away. Her parents are impressed, and she is able to convince her father to come into the the forest with her – not just to practice her new found skills, but to walk leisurely. She likes the freedom. Even if she isn't able to go alone, it is better than being trailed by a myriad of guards for her protection.

She brings down several birds with one well placed arrow each. Her father comments on her technique and other suggested ideas which she takes with an open mind, and finds that they work.

She's laughing at one of his jokes when she hears a cut off growl, and the sound of some high-pitched whimpers. Her father automatically draws his sword as she strings an arrow from her quiver, ready to shoot, and they creep together through the undergrowth carefully, avoiding fallen sticks and tree roots. The two burst into a clearing, startling a hunter. At his feet is a dead and half-skinned wolf. Surrounding it is two of its lifeless pups.

"_Hey!_" Emma snarls as she begins to see red, pulling the string of the armed bow to her cheek.

The startled hunter looks at the two of them, eyes wide as it holds some skin and fur in his hand. He balks at them before turning around and fleeing in panic, crashing through the forest noisily before he disappears from their eye sight.

She's shaking from anger before her father breaks her from her train of thought at his words.

"He killed the she-wolf's pups, too."

All she can think of is the Huntsman's brother and his own emotions at the death of his pack, his only family.

"_Slaughtered_," She hisses to herself, repeating the Huntsman's words. She is afraid to even look down at the mutilated remains. "for their furs. Murdered for absolutely no reason."

"Those damn poachers," She hears her father mutter. "Completely disregarding the laws..."

She's turning around to look away from the sight that makes her either want to vomit her breakfast and break down and cry, and her eyes meet another pair of brown ones in the woods. She releases her weapon, placing it on the ground as she cautiously walks to the edge of the small clearing, and her gloved hands push back the tall grasses.

It's one wolf pup, whimpering and shivering as it's wide eyes look up at her. Emma releases a sigh as she picks up the brown-furred pup, holding it to her chest for warmth. Her father doesn't question her as she strokes its fur, whispering calmly to the animal as she picks up her fallen bow. The two venture back to the castle, silent the entire way.

Her mother eagerly accepts Emma's seemingly new companion. She is almost amused by the animal, and she feeds the pup scraps from the dinner table, which the pup accepts gratefully as it munches on the rich meat.

She isn't sure what to name the wolf pup. It turns out that the pup is a girl, and for some reason the name Henry attaches itself to her mind. She shakes her head absentmindedly, and she decides on no name at all – she merely calls her new friend and sister wolf little pup, but mostly just Pup.

/|\

She's now barely nineteen, and she has mastered the art of sneaking out of the castle without raising the alarms. She slings herself onto her horse, relishing in the feel and freedom of her trousers, Pup running around in excited circles as she begins the canter down a heavily trodden forest.

Pup had grown a lot in a year. Her brown fur lost its soft and downy puppy coat. She is slightly lanky, with long limbs that don't match her body type yet. Emma is amused that her friend is seemingly trapped in the awkward teenage years, the years she remembers with distaste herself.

Emma ties her horse outside the entrance to a fairly large city. Her hand runs over Pup idly as she flicks her hood over her curly blonde hair.

She certainly receives some odd stares because her mysterious wardrobe choices as well as the wolf trailing after her, observing the hectic trade market surrounding them as citizens yell, bargain, and haggle for a wide variety of goods. She's examining fresh produce when a high and young voice interrupts her solitude.

"Excuse me, miss, but may I pet your puppy?"

Emma whips around, searching at her own eye level, but she quickly realizes the voice is from a young girl, swallowed up in an orange leaf patterned traveling cloak, a wicker basket dangling from her hands. She blinks down at her, and finally she squats so she is face to face with the girl. The girl looks wary, dark blonde hair with random braids sliding against her own youthful face as the two stare at each other for a moment.

Emma lifts one of her hands and snaps it. Pup turns away from the butcher stand, where she was sniffing at scraps, and trots over to her, tail wagging.

"Of course you can," Emma smiles.

The girl beams back up at her before turning both hands to cup the wolf's face, fingers scratching pleasantly at the skin.

"What kind of dog is she?" The girl asks, hands running across her pup's fur.

Emma leans forward, voice lowering. "Can I tell you a secret?" The girl nods eagerly in agreement, and she becomes sly, her voice turning almost conspiratorial. "She's a wolf."

The child blinks back at her with an owlish expression, mouth opening to respond when her hazel eyes look behind Emma, and then they brighten up. "Papa!"

"Grace, sweetheart, I hoped you asked this nice lady if you could pet her dog before you –"

Emma had turn around at the voice, straightening to her full height once again, head turning to look at the newcomer, her hair splaying out from behind her hood and curling around her shoulders.

The man is definitely older than her. Wild brown hair falls over his forehead and sticks out at odd angles. He is dressed strangely, with a long burnt orange over coat matched with tight leather pants, mismatching buttons, and an ostentatious purple scarf coiling around his neck. He openly gapes at her, half choking on his spit and previous sentence as he whispers incredulously, "Emma?"

Emma stiffens, her arm reaching around her back and clinging to the bow secured there. She already feels safer clinging to the small wooden weapon. "How do you know my name?" She asks, grateful her voice isn't shaking.

The little girl leaps at her father, and he picks her up, their movements like a well-oiled machine. "Papa, this nice ladies pet is a..." She looks around to see if no one was listening, and whispers loudly, "a _wolf_!"

"How interesting," The man says blankly, placing his daughter back on her own two feet. She immediately goes back to Pup and pats the top of her head.

"Can we get one, Papa?"

Her father looks slightly panicked, and Emma starts to smirk to herself; obviously he couldn't refuse his daughter anything. She speaks up, capturing the attention of Grace.

"When you're older, Grace," she starts slowly. "wolves find you. No matter what. I saved Pup here from a poacher, and she just... found me one day. Well, we found each other."

Grace looks awestruck, and her father relieved. "Will a wolf find me one day?" she asks.

The left side of Emma's lips quirks up fondly. "Perhaps." She looks away from the sweet little girl, and her stare turns hard on her father. The man notices and swallows nervously as he walks to her. Grace is distracted by Pup, and the man leans down to whisper into her ear.

"Emma, you're not safe here," He scolds, but sounds amused at the same time. "The rebels swarm all around the lower trading districts, you should know that."

She scowls at him, fists clenching, and she demands, "Who are you? Tell me, before I shoot an arrow through your neck!"

He looks confused, a concerned hand wrapped around her upper arm as if to hold her steady. "Emma. You know me. It's Jefferson."

Emma shakes off his hand, hissing out curses only his ears could hear. "Unhand me, stranger!"

He obeys, but his eyes narrow at her. "You don't remember." It isn't a question, more like a statement. His voice is oddly flat.

"What is there to remember, exactly?" She grumbles darkly.

For some bizarre reason, Jefferson looks almost bemused at her moodiness. "There is always something to remember, Emma. You just have to look for it."

She scowls blatantly at his vague advice. "You're insane."

The grin that spreads across his face in return is so familiar. "Some would say I'm even mad." He looks positively delighted by this.

"I do not doubt that for even a moment."

Jefferson's face seems to sober as he walks towards her, pulling the hood of her cloak over her blonde curly locks. She barely hides her flinch from his closeness. "This is serious, Emma, the rebels can never know you are here."

She resists the inner urge to bat away his fingers, but he picks up the hint and pulls away once he is done adjusting her cloak.

"Tell me about the rebels."

His eyes widen, and they flick from his daughter to her rapidly, swallowing nervously. "You mean... your parents haven't told you?"

Emma's face turns to stone. "Obviously not."

Jefferson leans closer to her, and Emma thinks:_ gods, does this man have any sense of personal space_? But that thought is quickly gone when he quietly says, "You've heard of the curse and the Evil Queen, right?"

"Only small strands of information."

"The people..." He sighs, scratching the back of his scalp, eyes narrowing in concentration. "The people who remember their lives in the other world, they're not happy that they are finally back home. They miss their lives there, they actually prefer the modern world. The rebels think that those lives they had _were_ their happy endings."

"But this is the real world!" Emma protests, half of the words flying over her head as she stubbornly clings to the notion that nothing other than her home is the only one that could ever exist.

"_A_ real world," He corrects her, looking extremely amused. His statements sound rehearsed and recorded, as if he has already said them before and is just repeating them again for emphasis. "How arrogant are you to assume that yours is the only one?"

The words are so familiar as they bounce around in her head, and she gasps aloud at the sensation as it flashes behind her eyes, clear enough to be felt but fuzzy enough she can't determine their origin.

"You've said this to me before," She says.

Jefferson nods slowly, head tilting to the left as he watches her.

Emma begins blinking rapidly, her palms becoming slick with sweat. "And the Evil Queen?"

"Ah, the Evil Queen..." Jefferson chuckles darkly, fingers fidgeting at his puffy sleeves. "She is supposedly gone. But if she actually_ has _disappeared, then there would be no rebels who wish to go back to their own happy endings, now would there."

"What do I have to do with any of this?" She whispers.

"That," He pauses dramatically, and his daughter runs over to him giggling, Pup trotting at her heels. He lifts her up and she squeals with delight. "you will have to ask your parents about. Say goodbye to the nice lady and her wolf, Grace."

"Good bye, miss!" Grace pouts, but responds obediently, still clutching to her father. "'Bye wolf!"

"Where are you going?" Emma inquires.

Jefferson swallows, and there is a long pause before he says, "I'm going home to my wife, Alice."

He sounds emotional, but his eyes fill with such indescribable happiness that Emma feels like she is stepping in on a moment hidden behind a curtain, a moment she is not allowed to encroach upon. It takes her several moments to realize that the duo is walking away, and she internally panics.

"But – what will I do?" Emma wants to hit herself for calling after him so desperately.

He looks smug in return, his words sounding like they have been rehearsed over and over as they roll off his tongue. "Get it to work."

Emma watches them as their backs disappear into the crowds, forehead crinkling in confusion at his vague words. Jefferson turns to look over his shoulder, feeling her stare, and he has the audacity to wink at her. Emma blinks rapidly a few times, before she scrunches up her nose as if she smells a bad odor, causing the man to smile wide in an almost manic grin back at her. And then he and his young daughter are gone.

Pup nudges Emma's palm with her cold and wet nose, tongue flicking out against her skin to catch her attention. She looks away from where the father and daughter duo has disappeared, down at her pup's eyes, which were staring back up at her imploringly. Her hand absentmindedly runs over the cloak hanging over her head, checking its position as she turns on her heel, walking in the opposite direction she came from.

She feels cold drops of rain soak through her clothes, and she ducks into an alleyway, hidden and safe from the elements. Pup follows her, taking her time and stretching leisurely in the rain, allowing the water to dribble down into her undercoat.

"It's not my fault if you catch a cold, Pup." Emma chastises slyly. The wolf's ears prick as she makes a comical snort blow out from her muzzle. Others were also seeking refuge in alleys and taverns – the chill and wind was increasing, so Emma makes her way to a rustic inn and combined tavern. She's immediately hit with a sense of _déjà vu_, and she resists the urge to turn and flee from her last memory of being at a bar.

The room grows quiet as she holds open the door for her canine companion, and she can feel their stares over examining her. They grumble to themselves before turning back to their alcohol, food or partners, chatting quietly. Emma ignores their looks as she sits at the bar, Pup sitting down at her heels.

"Can I get you anything?"

Emma looks up, shaking her head at the gray-haired barkeep. "No, thank you. Just waiting for the storm to lighten up."

The bartender nods and slides a bowl of peanuts towards her. "Well, if you change your mind, just call me over then."

She fidgets with the wooden bowl in her hands. "Much obliged, sir."

Emma is left to her own thoughts for a while, and she feels her despair sink in when the rain only pours down harder, like a continuous sheet. She purposely ignores the mutters and glares sent in her direction. Occasionally, a particularly bold patron would just _accidentally_ kick her stool as they pass by, only to snap at her to watch where she is going. There is a flash of bright white light, and then a loud boom sounds, filling her chest with the bass and thrum of the thunder. Pup, who is half under the counter, jumps slightly at the unnatural sound, only to rest her head on her paws once it passes as if nothing had happened.

A large man slides into the seat next to her, reeking of alcohol, and he slurs, "Better leave, pumpkin, or we'll kill ya like we did to your other friend."

Emma stares at him, completely lost as her eyes search the strangers cold ones, and she finally says, "What the hell are you talking about?"

He laughs, which turns into a wheezy cough, and he leans forward on his elbows. "Those creatures raised by wolves. One of 'em was here not even a half hour ago."

Her hands grow slick with sweat. The Huntsman. She isn't sure how she knows this, but all she understands now is that she does. She breathes out slowly, clenching her hands. "Which way did he go?"

This next laugh is almost maniacal. "My buds and I roughed 'im up a little. He stumbled outta here with his tail in between his legs!"

She seethes in silence, and Pup reacts to the mood, sitting up and snarling, raising the fur along her back. Suddenly, Emma leaps from her position, arms reaching around the mans neck as she smashes his head into the wooden counter. He flails under her, his drunkenness affecting his balance and coordination.

"Did you hurt him?" She hisses into his ear, hand digging into the back of his neck. The slam quiets the entire full bar, and they watch her and Pup warily, but do not interfere.

"Let me go, you stupid whore!" The man thrashes under her weight.

"_What did you do_?" It's irrational to feel this angry – or scared, she admits to herself reluctantly. She is scared for this stranger, this man who roams the wild alone, this man she doesn't even know.

He sputters, his cheeks turning an odd shade of purple as he tries to chokes out an answer. She waits, but he doesn't answer the question, and he begins to yell even louder than before. Emma growls to herself, and then pushes his head deeper into the wood as she bounces away. The bar is eerily quiet, and she snaps her fingers; Pup gets up and follows her out of the building, shooting dirty glares at anyone who looked at her with hostility in both of their eyes. She hears the commotion behind her from the bar, and she picks up herjogging pace, the wolf trotting after her, claws clicking against the cobble ground.

The rain is freezing, and soon her clothes are almost completely soaked through.

She has to find him.

/|\

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**WELL. No Huntsman in this chapter, but you guys are in for a treat in the next one - plenty of Emma/Huntsman interaction. And maybe some more memory flashes. Well... maybe a lot of memory flashes. Hmm...**

**Anyway, I'm completely overwhelmed with everyone's response to this story - it makes me a little emotional lol.**

**Snippet of the next chapter! :**

**" **_"What's with the shaking?" Emma grumbles, ignoring the pain from her stiff back as she shifts her position._

_She can hear the smirk in his hoarse voice; he is definitely teasing her now. "It's so hard to get your attention."_

_There it is again, that feeling that they have said something like this before. Something akin to intimacy, a close relationship – hell, something so personal she had never experienced her entire life besides with her family. The Huntsman stiffens in her hold, and she knows that he can feel it too, whatever it was that seems to be haunting the two of them._

_The rain seems to pour harder, and Emma sighs. "I have to go home."_ **"**

**I'm excited about the next chapter... And a little bonus, here's on extra peek with just one sentence:**

** " "**_He leaps backwards, away from her and _oh_ it's his heart, he needs to find it because the Evil One is squeezing it, grinding it into powder and mush with her bare hands, she did this, the Queen who takes everything from everyone with no remorse no pity no regrets – "_

**Please leave a review!**


	5. The Ambushes

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

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/|\

Emma feels panic set in as she follows the blood spatters on the ground, and she wants to call and shout out a name, but damn the Huntsman, he doesn't have a name. Something seems to itch at the edges of her brain, and it sits on the tip of her tongue. Frustrated, she slides to a halt, her hands sliding through her damp curls and gripping her scalp as her eyes search frantically around her.

A howl pierces the air, and Emma stiffens, turning around to look at Pup. Her wolf's ears are pricked up, standing still. Then she lets out a bark, propelling herself forwards. Emma watches, before running after her. The wolf changes direction, going down a back alley, and she lets out a small gasp as she steps in an unexpected puddle of blood. She hears growls from where Pup disappears into the shadows of the alley, and then another wolf – large, muscular and gray – is stalking towards her. She knows this wolf. His two different colored eyes look at her, and the threatening stance changes to a friendly one as he relaxes.

Woman and wolf stare at each other, before the gray wolf snorts and turns away, as if begging her to follow, and disappears deeper into the alley. She follows, feeling her palms tingle as she hears a moan. She feels Pup's cold nose tap against her leg, and she stops when she sees the dark slouching form against the wall.

"Huntsman?" She whispers, feeling silly for just calling out to him using such a vague title.

The quiet moaning stops. There is a particularly loud silence, filled with panting and the sound pouring rain, and then an incredulous whisper, "Emma?"

She crouches down, and she can hear his heavy breathing. Her mouth opens to speak, but then her own breath gets caught in her throat as his hazy dark blue eyes pierce hers. She stares back at him, blinking owlishly, and one of her hands reaches up on its own accord to cup his shoulder.

"You're bleeding," She says, painfully aware that this conversation is like an echo of their other one two years ago.

"I'll be –" He grunts when her other hand touches the deep cut on his forehead, flinching away at the cool contact. "– fine. I've had much worse."

She doesn't respond, and the Huntsman shifts his position, hand digging into a pocket of his dark cloak. He pulls out a delicate yellow piece of fabric, and she attempts to swallow back emotions that well up her throat from its strong sense of familiarity. It's her handkerchief. It's worn and used with several stains, but she recognizes it. He places it on his forehead, and her own hand reaches up to apply pressure to the wound, ignoring his hiss of pain.

"You have gotten older."

Emma starts to shiver from the pouring rain. "So have you."

And she means it. His previous scruff has turned even darker and fuller on his face, the hair from his scalp longer and curlier. He has filled out, his arms are now like muscular and defined ropes. She ignores the sensation of his blood dripping down her hand, seeping downwards from the gash on his forehead.

The Huntsman begins to slur his words. "I – thought... 'bout you... after all this... t-time..."

She tries to ignore his confession, and the way it makes her stomach flutter. "You must have hit your head quite hard, Huntsman. Did the men at the tavern hurt you that much?"

"Just a few punches and kicks," He wheezes, eyes half closed. "Threw... sm'glasses at me..."

She doesn't know much about medicine, but she knows that he must have a concussion of some sort.

His gloved hands move up to grasp her upper arms, and he peers up at her. "Since when did you have a wolf sister?"

Emma blinks at him, his blood staining her neat and clean fingernails at an alarming rate. "I was in the forest with my father when we came across a poacher," A dark look crosses the Huntsman's face at the word, and she quickly continues, "The she-wolf and two of her pup's were gone, but then I found my Pup, hidden away in the bracken."

The Huntsman's head lolls to the left side, his ear pressing into his shoulder, and the two stare at each other. His eyes start to become half-mast, and she panics, shaking him away from the numbing and tempting unconsciousness forced upon him from his concussion.

"Hey," she says as he blinks blearily up at her. "Stay awake. No sleeping, not with that head injury."

He nods in response, but his next plea is almost desperate, "Keep talking. Tell me anything, I need something to focus on besides passing out."

A line appears in between Emma's blonde eyebrows. "Anything?"

"_Please_." It's a rough whisper, but because of that it seems to strengthens her resolve even more.

"Well, since we've met, I have become adept at the bow." Emma tells him, struggling to keep the smugness from her tone.

"Really?" He laughs, albeit a little weakly.

She nods, and continues on, mentioning many trivial facts and small anecdotes involving her – but she is careful to hide her royalty and any information that is crucial to her true identity. The Huntsman laughs at some, inquiries at the proper points, and sometimes just grunts to show that he is listening.

Somehow, their positions change over time, as the rain seems to grow colder and their combined body heat draws them together; she is leaning against the wall of the building in that alley, and he is leaning against her front side, the soft hairs of his head prickling at her own chin. She wraps her arms around his back and one hand pressing against his open head wound. She blushes, glad it is dark, because to an outsider it looks like they are cuddling, or cradling him. (Emma knows that, technically, she is, but she doesn't want to admit that aloud or even to herself because then it would make this much too real.)

"So," She draws out the word. "you've kept my handkerchief."

He is silent, and she is afraid that she had just overstepped their careful boundaries. There seems to be this line between them, a line mutually put there, and each of them have an assigned side. Occasionally, they would toe that line, as if they are finally testing their boundaries and their will power, but nothing more.

After several moments the Huntsman says, "Why wouldn't I?"

She wants to counter his question with another sarcastic one of her own, but instead she bites the inside of her mouth to resist the temptation.

The pair lapse into another bout of quiet, a comfortable silence, and the cold water seems like it is seeping down into her muscles and bones. She blinks, fighting off the stupor of sleep. Her eyes start to close, and it is him who shakes her violently, calling out her name. A rush of adrenaline spikes through her, and she sits up, squeezing him tighter to her own form from the shock.

"What's with the shaking?" Emma grumbles, ignoring the pain from her stiff back as she shifts her position.

She can hear the smirk in his hoarse voice; he is definitely teasing her now. "It's so hard to get your attention."

There it is again, that feeling that they have said something like this before. Something akin to intimacy, a close relationship – hell, something so personal she had never experienced her entire life besides with her family. The Huntsman stiffens in her hold, and she knows that he can feel it too, whatever it was that seems to be haunting the two of them.

The rain seems to pour harder, and Emma sighs. "I have to go home."

The Huntsman sits up, slightly lethargic from his wounds, head pounding. "No, you don't."

She shakes her head, sitting up and ignoring the kink in her muscles from sitting in the same position for a long time. "You wouldn't understand, Huntsman."

"I would if you told me."

His voice is harsh, and she visibly winces from the blunt coldness. The yellow handkerchief has long since been soaked through from the rain, as well as the trace amounts of blood and dirt from the cut on the Huntsman's forehead. It hangs limply in her hand, and she stares at it to avoid his intense eye contact and the awkwardness she will no doubt feel if she returns his look. She thrusts her hand out, basically shoving the cloth into his callused hand, and he accepts it by wrapping his hand around hers, covering her in his warmth, and she shivers.

"But I can't," She whispers.

The Huntsman is silent, imploring gaze stuck to her face, and he nods at her. But she isn't sure _why_ he nods, because she knows he doesn't understand. He wouldn't understand if she told him, anyway. He struggles to his feet, woozy as he sways precariously back and forth, lightheaded from the large bump on his head. Pup and his brother wolf look up from their staring match at the two of them.

He offers her his upturned palm, clad in only his pair of worn leather gloves. Emma stares at it, blinking rapidly, before she reaches up and grasps it firmly in her own hand. The sound makes a clapping noise, and he grips her back in a gentle squeeze as he pulls her off of the cool ground. She stumbles slightly, blood rushing to her head and he steadies her, one hand automatically flying to her hip and the other to her shoulder to hold her up.

Her next words are a barely audible murmur. "Thank you."

The Huntsman's mouth opens, and she leans forward, almost eager to hear what he has to say in reply, and she instantly warms, face blossoming red when he leans towards her as well.

"Emma," He says. "You should know that I –"

She doesn't find out what he does want her to know, what he want to tell her, because suddenly their moment is intruded upon, foreign shouts penetrating their own private euphoric land, their own bubble. She hears varying shouts and yells of, "_Grab him!"_ and_ "Get the rebel away from her!_" and the Huntsman is seized from right in front of her by her own castle guards. He struggles, but there are too many of them to successfully escape without more damaging injuries.

She knows these knights, of course. She had grown up with most, trained with some of them as she mastered the bow. Emma flinches away from their kind and concerned gazes as she looks at the Huntsman, who says nothing, a sword at his throat.

"You should be fine now, Your Highness, now that..." She tunes what the old guard is saying, her fists clenching as she fights the urge to shake from the rage that is welling up inside of her.

"Wait a minute,Your _Highness_?" She hears the Huntsman mumble, incredulous and confused. Again, she feels his stare, and she turns away, looking at the head knight, straightening her back and stiffening her jaw.

"Release him," Emma demands, her eyes and voice hardening into an authoritative tone.

"But Your Highness," the head knight begins, scratching at his beard. "We have orders to bring you back to the castle safely and commandeer any rebel traitors that may have found you."

"Seeing as he is no rebel, knight, then you are failing to follow your orders," She growls, her eyes narrowing, and then she repeats, "Now, release him."

"This is all just a misunderstanding," The Huntsman laments again, eyebrows furrowing at the entire situation. "I swear, I have not nor will I ever be a –"

He was cut off violently by a sneering young knight, who elbows him in the face with a quick jarring motion. The Huntsman's nose spurts out blood with a sickening crack and he falls backwards, only being propped up by the others holding him prisoner in their rough and unforgiving grasps. Some of the men laugh, jeering so blatantly in his face. She can no longer see his expressions, which is currently engulfed in the shadows, but she could practically sense the red blood flow dripping downwards, soaking into the scruff that covers his face. The obnoxious laughter grows louder, even going as far as to drown out the sound of the pouring rain.

And then she's seeing a color red that is brighter than the blood that flecks his face and the street, trembling even harder than before, her own fingernails digging through her gloves and into her soft skin. Nobody should be touching him because he is hers, and nobody else's for the taking. How can someone even consider the thought of just barely _touching_ a hair on his head? But, she's not looking at anything now – she is somewhere strange, not in the back alley in the pouring rain. Wherever she is, she feels slightly dizzy, and it's too bright for normal.

Emma's in a room, looking at him, and he's looking at her with a leather jacket and clothed in other foreign fabrics. The Huntsman _(but he isn't the Huntsman, he's... oh what is his name?_) looks so strange without his customary furs and cloak, and somehow Emma resists the urge to clutch his arms and dig her fingers and squeeze the malleable brown leather, to feel the warmth seeping through into her own hands. Her eyes search his form, taking in the starred badge pinned to his lapel, and the sight warms her own insides with such a simple form of happiness that she has never experienced before.

And then his hands begin to cup her cheeks, thumbs stroking her skin delicately, and he whispers to her, "_Thank you_," and he is leaning forward, lips just barely about to brush against her own, a promise of what is to come and all that they can have together, and then he gasps out in pain. The sound is equivalent to a bucket of cold water being dumped over her head. He leaps backwards, away from her and _oh_ it's his heart, he needs to find it because the Evil One is squeezing it, grinding it into powder and mush with her bare hands, she did this, the Queen who takes everything from everyone with no remorse no pity no regrets –

Red isn't the only thing Emma is seeing now.

The time in the vision flashing before her eyes seems to stagger, and she sees different scenes. One, he's gripping his chest, back arching in a strange angle as his breath comes out in unsteady gasps from the pain. There's a flash and two, he's keeling over, slamming against the shiny wooden desk, sending papers spiraling in different directions across the room. Flash and three, then she's cradling him into her own body, shaking him and screaming a name. He can't be gone, he just got here, she's finally opened up and look what has happened now! Mary Margaret was right, she should have torn down these walls a lot sooner.

It takes her several seconds in the disjointed reality she is witnessing to realize that she is calling out a name. Her ears are muffled, like someone is shoving cotton into the depths of her ear drums. The sound of his name vibrates in her chest as she sobs loudly, looking up at the ceiling with a sense of exasperation and defeat, asking whatever gods that are listening, _why him? _and _why me?_ He is dead on the floor, his chest devoid of any rhythmic thumping sounds, empty, burning cold, a heart that will never beat again.

Never again beat for her.

As quickly as she was pulled into the strange world, she's out of it, and everything seems to slams back into her at once. She is not some weak and helpless girl with a whisper for a voice – she is royalty. She is Emma.

"_As your princess, I command that you release this man immediately_!_"_

The knights seemed shocked that a loud and commanding voice like that could come from their own private princess, but their rough grasp on the Huntsman lessens, and he staggers to his feet, panting loudly.

"This man has no quarrel with our kingdom. You may take me home, but," Emma says, snapping her fingers. Pup appears from the shadows and slinks around her legs, eyeing the knights warily. "leave the Huntsman here."

"We can't, Your Highness," one of the men say stiffly. "Your father said to bring anyone we find in your presence to the castle."

Emma is quiet for a moment. "For what purpose?"

"He didn't specify, Your Highness."

The Huntsman's eyes are heavy on her face, and she couldn't even meet his stare head on.

"I trust you do not mind riding back to the castle with us, Huntsman?" Emma asks, looking at his form from behind a curtain of wet blonde tendrils.

She sees the muscles in his jaw clench several times. "I fear that I no longer have a choice anymore, Your Highness," his voice is cordial and cold, her inherited title sounding like an insult, and she flinches. But then she nods, turning on her heel to tread towards the head knight, Pup trailing after her.

"You have an extra horse for the Huntsman's use to ride back to the castle?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

Emma nods, one hand reaching back to throw the hood of her cloak over her head. "And you've collected my own horse from where I tethered her on the outskirts of the city as well?"

"Of course, Your Highness."

Straightening her back, she pushes her way through the group of knights, who immediately part to let her pass. Emma slings herself onto the top of the horse, settling down into the worn saddle. She ignores the way her wet dress and traveling cloak cling to her pale skin as she adjusts the bow strung across her shoulders. Pup nudges Emma's foot with her cold nose.

The horse seems wary of the wolf at it's hooves, and it begins to spin around in slow circles. Emma's grip on the reigns tighten, and it takes barely any training for the horse to calm down and give in to her practiced training. Her gaze focuses back on the men, who are already on their own horses. Her eyes hone in on the Huntsman, who sits uncomfortably atop a beige horse. He is staring at her, his expression unreadable.

"What of the scrawny pet, Your Highness?"

The voice of an anonymous knight breaks her concentration, and she feels anger surge up inside of herself.

"The wolf isn't his _pet_, knight," Emma states flatly. "That is his brother and we will treat him just as well as we would any stranger we bring to the castle – my home."

Her voice raises steadily so the others may hear, and there is a scattering of mixed replies, "Yes, Your Highness," and "My apologies, Your Highness."

She can hear the men rallying behind her, preparing for the journey, but she keeps her back to them as she sits proudly on her horse, ignoring the blowing wind and rain. Several of the knights push their horses forward, surrounding her with unnecessary protection she doesn't protest against; she knows they wouldn't listen to her anyway.

Emma looks down at the ground, watching as the horse's neck gracefully bob up and down. It's hooves move rhythmically against the wet ground, letting out a soothing _clop _after _clop. _From her peripheral vision, she can see Pup and the other wolf trotting next to each other, occasionally bumping their shoulders and tails together. She twists her head to the side even farther, looking over her shoulder, and catches a quick glimpse of the Huntsman.

He is staring right at her.

She meets his stormy gaze, filled with emotions she can't quite decipher. He blinks and she takes that as an obvious sign to turn away. Emma tells herself to not look back at him during the trip to the castle.

Oh, but she feels his gaze burning into the back of her head the entire time.

/|\

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**Well... that was an interesting new chapter, no? Hoped you guys enjoyed it. I'm just curious, would you guys prefer shorter chapters or longer ones? **

**And, here is a sneak preview:**

**"**_"Emma!" Suddenly, her mother is in front of her, eyes wide. "How old is this Huntsman?"_

_ Emma fidgets with her creased and mud-caked cloak. "I hardly see how that is relevant, mother." _

_They both continue to stare at her, their gazes quickly becoming almost frantic, and Emma caves in finally and she says quietly, "Not even a year or two older than me."_

_The silence is deafening._

_Her father makes a gesture with his hands at the guards. "Bring him in."_

_"No!" Emma protests, leaping forward and latching onto his forearm. "Please. Let him go!" "_

**Please leave a review!**


	6. The Interrogation

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

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/|\

Naturally, they are separated by the knights when they arrive at her childhood home. To the Huntsman, her home is a large and daunting castle, almost overwhelming in its sheer and massive size; it causes the hunter to feel slightly claustrophobic being caged up inside the high stone walls.

She is pushed forward by the group of knights, but she tries to crane her head above their shoulders, almost completely turned around and walking backwards as she eagerly looks for the fur-clad form of the Huntsman. He looks warily around at the high ceilings and elaborate designs, carved furniture, and imperial stained glass windows. Even with his younger age he seems almost as big as the men covered in heavy armor, his shoulders even broader underneath the heavy woolen patched cloak and deer skins. But even if he looks to pose no threat, he is still surrounded by her familys own knights, their gazes trained on him as if he was an intruder himself.

The knights force her to turn back into the throne room as they pull Emma through the huge doorway, and she nearly trips over the wet hem of her cloak but she quickly rights herself on her feet. Now, when she is finally surrounded by the regale of her home, she feels like a drowned rat with her mud-soaked sopping clothes and drenched hair.

She's never felt more unworthy of being in her own home. Her neck cracks slightly as she looks down at the ground around her, eyes searching for the comforting presence of Pup. A frown spreads across her face when Emma finds that she isn't there.

The knights suddenly part, melting into the shadows, and she is left alone in the throne room. Pup suddenly brushes up against the back of her legs, but keeps her calm demeanor, tongue hanging out of her mouth as she pants. She feels comfort from the small gesture, and she is immediately glad her lupine sister is there.

"Emma!"

She looks up to see her mother sprinting towards her, wearing a simple white sleeping gown with a green robe haphazardly thrown on. Her long black hair with flecks of gray whip around her, and Emma allows herself to feel a slight glint of envy at her mother's beauty. And then her arms around her, and she can hear her saying, "Oh, I'm so glad you're okay!" over and over.

Emma accepts the hug from Snow with a tight grip, and she is almost covered with her sweet-smelling mahogany locks. The scent is comforting and warm; it smells like home. Her eyes peek up at her father, standing behind his wife with a hand on her shoulder. After more incoherent mumblings from her mother into her skin, she lets go, holding onto her shoulders.

"Emma," King James looks down at her, jaw clenching.

She blinks back up at him, and she sees out of the corner of her eye her mother trailing her fingers down her father's arm – a subtle warning, or is it a comforting gesture? Whatever the true intentions are, it seems to calm him anyway.

Emma stills as her father's hand reaches out towards her and carefully pulls off the bow that she forgot hangs on her shoulder.

"This," He says, fingering the dark wood in between his fingers, "wouldn't have protected you much."

Emma blinks up at him. "I had Pup with me."

"Still not enough."

"James –" Her mother interjects, but they both ignore her, their voices raising and echoing around the large hall.

"And what, are you going to lock me up in this damned castle for the rest of my life?" Emma replies scathingly, a dark look crossing her features.

"If it keeps you safe in the long run, then yes." He answers back shortly.

The conversation she had with Delly years ago floods through her head at that exact moment, like a half-forgotten dream, and her earlier argument spills out of her lips loudly, "How am I supposed to rule these people if I don't even know them?"

Her words are met with silence, but she holds her father's unwavering gaze until he blinks and looks away, sighing in frustration.

"While we're having this little heart to heart, do you want to enlighten me on the Evil Queen front?" Emma practically snarls, snatching her bow out of her father's hands. "Or are we going to hide that situation from me, too?"

"We have more important things to discuss right now, Emma."

Emma's gaze turns from her father to her mother, one eyebrow raising. "What is more important than a portion of our kingdom partaking in a magical rebellion?"

Her mother barely twitches at her sarcastic tone. "What of the rebel boy the knights brought back?"

Emma stiffens. "He isn't a rebel. You brought him here needlessly."

"But you obviously knew him," James puts in, his hand ghosting over the top of Pup's head in a light pat.

"And that means you have sneaked out before, without our knowing," Snow scolds. "To go meet boys? Honestly, Emma, you've shown no real interest in any boys before –"

"What if he _is_ a rebel?" Her father adds.

"But he's not!" She protests, trying to hide her shivering. "He's – he is just a Huntsman."

Her words are met with dead silence. She blinks, confused, as her mother whirls around and grabs James's arm, and there is a rush of whispered words.

"Impossible," She hears her father mutter. "He is much too old..." More muffled words. "...crushed his heart."

"Emma!" Suddenly, her mother is in front of her, eyes wide. "How old is this Huntsman?"

Emma fidgets with her creased and mud-caked cloak. "I hardly see how that is relevant, mother."

They both continue to stare at her, their gazes quickly becoming almost frantic, and Emma caves in finally and she says quietly, "Not even a year or two older than me."

The silence is deafening.

Her father makes a gesture with his hands at the guards. "Bring him in."

"No!" Emma protests, leaping forward and latching onto his forearm. "_Please_. Let him go!"

It all happened very quickly then. Her words were ignored as the guards flank the Huntsman into the large throne room. He looks at her quickly, his piercing gaze hidden under the wet mess of curly brown hair. She stares right back, ignoring the urge to shiver from her soaked clothes. They stop at the stairs leading up to the thrones, where her family is currently standing, looking down at the enclosing group. The Huntsman lowers himself to his knees, bowing his head. His wolf brother seems to realize the solemnity of the situation, and he lowers his head as well, but keeps his multi-colored eyes flicking from one royal to the other.

"Your Majesties," The Huntsman finally rumbles, his accented brogue becoming much more noticeable in the echoing hall. Finally, his eyes lock on her, and he acknowledges, "Your Highness."

Emma fights to hide her blush, and sneaks a quick look at her parents.

They look like they have just seen a ghost.

Snow White stammers momentarily, her face draining of any rosy blush, before she acknowledges the hunter with a cool dip of her head. Emma lets out a long breath of relief, shoulders sagging forward slightly from the relieved tension. Her father, however, tilts his head slightly as he looks down at the figure below him with wary distrust in his eyes.

"My daughter seems to trust you," He begins carefully. "Be that as it may, Huntsman, I do not."

"That is reasonable, Your Majesty," The Huntsman says.

"Where did you meet the princess, Gr– Huntsman?"

The Huntsman clears his throat awkwardly, shifting on his knee. "Two years ago, in a tavern. There was... was an altercation with some of the drunks –"

Her mother looks back at her, expression incredulous. "Emma, you went to a _bar_?"

"Mother, just listen!" Emma whispers back at her, her words bordering on turning into a hiss.

"– and my brother was injured," He gestures to the wolf, whose ear twitches in return. "Emma... _Your Highness, _went off into the woods after him and began to stodge the blood flow. Without her, my brother would be dead."

He is silent for a moment, a strange kind of smile on his face, a smile like he still couldn't believe what had happened, a smile that makes her own insides burn with an foreign emotion she likens to happiness she has never felt before, and he continues with a reverent tone of voice, "I owe her everything."

At this point, Emma has trouble breathing and she blinks rapidly. Snow looks, simply put stunned. However, her father's eyes narrow, but he nods his head grimly.

"Pray tell," The King asks. "What is your name?"

The Huntsman's blue eyes flick back to her father. "I do not have one, Your Majesty."

"Then what should we call you?"

"To be honest, Your Majesty, '_Huntsman_' is the only name and title I have ever known." He confesses, looking down at intricate tile floor of the throne room.

Her mother steps forward and puts her hand on her father's shoulder. "When was the last time you had a full meal, Huntsman?"

He looks at her, a line appearing in between his eyebrows as he admits reluctantly, "Not in a long while, Your Majesty."

She smiles at him, "It is too late for dinner... but just early enough for a large breakfast, wouldn't you say?"

Emma loves her mother wholeheartedly at this point, and she gives her own closed lip smile at her mother's ability to charm even the most socially inept person.

"But you both must change first," Snow frowns, stepping delicately down the stairs step by step until she came to a flowing stop in front of the Huntsman. He looks up at her from where he knelt at her feet, and she gestures with her hand to come to a stand. He does, and he is several inches taller than her. "After all, you both must be freezing from the rain."

The Huntsman smiles, but it looks more like a grimace to the trained eye. "If that is what Your Majesty commands."

With a blink of the eye, guards are ushering both of them down the hall, and she hears her mother in the background ask politely for the castle chef to begin an early breakfast. Emma lets out a sigh, pulling at her rapidly curling hair as she walks next to the Huntsman. His presence next to her seems to burn, and she itches to reach out her other hand and gently twine her fingers with his own rough ones. The urge catches her off guard, so she squeezes her hands into a fist, her finger nails digging into her palm.

They reach the end of a hallway quickly, and it is time for both of them to branch off in separate directions.

"I will see you momentarily, then." Emma says, aware of the impatient guards ready to escort her to her room. The Huntsman bows, not meeting her gaze.

"Your Highness," he says, his accent prolonging the syllables of her title almost pleasantly.

And then he is gone, the air cool from where his body previously occupied, and Emma feels as if she has been slapped.

She realizes that she has been standing in the hallway for a prolonged amount of time, and she feels herself blush, and she quickly pushes open the huge wooden door to her room, allowing Pup to trot in after her, and slams it shut. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and she leans up against the door, her head thumping against the surface.

"Exhausted?"

Emma jumps at the sound radiating from her dark room, and she scowls when she recognizes the voice. With a grunt, Emma walks further into her room towards the windows, pushing the curtains out of the way to let the rising sun and bird song fill her bedroom.

Someone was in her room.

"What, you're not going to talk to me?"

She sighs, pulling at the strings around her neck for her cloak. She throws it over the side of her bed, disregarding the fact that it is almost soaking wet. From the faint light that trickles in from the window, she can see the outlined face of a tall man, barely three and twenty and looking extremely smug from where he leaned against the wall, head tilting to the side.

Pup bares her teeth at the man, and he holds up his hands mockingly. "Call off your puppy, Emma,"

Emma almost growls herself.

"Told you that you were going to get caught."

"Isn't it a little creepy that you were waiting for me inside my bedroom all by yourself in the _dark_?" She finally grumbles, ignoring his words and wringing out her hair. Rain water droplets drip to the stone ground, staining the gray tiles even darker.

"Aw, I was just worried about you."

Emma scowls at him from over her shoulder. "Well don't be. You know I can handle myself outside of the castle walls, Pinocchio."

Pinocchio grins at her from behind his thick beard. "Obviously you can't – you seemed to have brought back a stray."

At this, Emma's lighthearted smile turned into a blank expression. While she loved her childhood friend dearly, he could be a pain sometimes. And he had definitely gone to far with that last remark.

"Get out of my room now, 'Nocchio. I have to change and then meet Mother, Father and our... guest for an early breakfast," She says, her hazel eyes narrowing at his own round blue ones.

He nods and begins to make his way to the door. The heavy door creaks with effort as it slowly opens, but before he disappears through the doorway he turns around. "Oh, and Emma?"

"What now, 'Nocchio?" She sighs, prying open the doors to her own wardrobe.

"Don't forget you're going to visit Thomas and Ella's kingdom in a fortnight."

A real smile finally crosses her face. "It will be fun seeing Alexandra and the twins again," She is already picturing the blonde heads of Sean and Ashley, the prince and princess toddlers. "They must've grown so much..."

Emma grows warm and happy at the thought of the family, of spunky Alexandra and the adorable quirks of Sean and Ashley, barely two years old and already running around and causing trouble for all the occupants of their castle.

Suddenly, Emma's expression turns smug. "And I'm sure you missed Princess Alexandra _very_ much."

Pinocchio scowls. "That was just a childish crush of mine, Emma, nothing more."

She slings her bow and quiver off of her shoulder and tosses them onto her bed. "If you say so, 'Nocchio."

If it is possible, his frown deepens, and Emma gives him a look of amusement. Pinocchio seems to understand her signal, and he leaves with a deep and over exaggerated bow, his voice deepening as he says, "Your Highness."

She scoffs as the door closes behind him, plunging her room into shadows. She's finally alone, and the emptiness crashes against her until she braces herself against her bed post, sighing loudly.

She does not fear for the Huntsman's life, she rationalizes to herself, basing her thoughts off of her parents reaction to the hunter. It is strange, the way they accept him so quickly – too strange, she decides. She moves throughout her tasks of changing and washing up menially, without feeling. Finally, after she is dressed, she wraps her damp hair into a hasty braid, several pieces of blonde hair poking out of the intricate twist.

She is looking into the mirror on her wall, fidgeting with the shorter strands of hair that frame her face, when she meets her hazel eyes in the mirror and has the odd feeling that she is being watched by someone other than herself.

As quickly as she feels it and senses the panic swirl in her stomach, it is gone, and she wonders why she would have felt like that in the first place. Fleeting as the thought is, the coldness of it clings to her heart as she lets out a heavy breath.

She stands like this, her arms pressing against her dresser for support for several long moments. The irrational panic disappears, and with a couple of blinks, she quickly exits the room with a whirl of her light blue dress, the door closing behind her.

/|\

* * *

**And I introduced Pinocchio! (And I slightly paired him with Alexandra, Cinderella and Thomas's girl. I also made them have more children, and since I didn't want to make up any names, I just thought 'What if they named their twins after their Storybrooke counterparts, Sean and Ashley?)**

**Forgive me for this being so late. I was recently released from the hospital and I'm about to go on vacation for a week, so there will be a little bit of a break in between chapters for a bit. But I'm really happy with the response for this story by you guys, its amazing! Take note of the last several paragraphs... kind of a big hint. **

**On another completely unrelated note, anyone seen the Amazing Spider-Man yet? I hope fanfiction will get a category for the new movie, it was fantastic.**

**Here's a little preview:**

**" "**Emma inwardly sighs in relief when her mother merely blinks and takes all of his actions in stride. "May I offer a plate or a bowl for your brother?"

"Or perhaps a chair?" James remarks snidely to nobody in particular, his head buried in several statistical scrolls of the kingdom as he scrawls out unknown words with a feathered quill.

Snow shoots him a supposedly discrete warning glare.

The wolf already cleaned up his food supply and was currently licking any leftover grease off of the table enthusiastically." **"**

**Please leave a review!**


	7. The Letter

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

/|\

Emma strides into the dining hall slightly out of breath from the long walk. She feels she makes such a strange entrance, her cheeks bright red as she pants, but her parents merely nod their heads in greeting, but keep a close eye on the Huntsman at the same time.

The man in question is still wearing the same wet clothes he entered with, however, his unruly hair looks like someone had made a brave attempt at taming the brown curls. Emma doesn't look at him as she pulls away her seat and flops into it almost ungracefully. She coughs slightly, scoots her chair in all the way to the wooden table, and then looks up across from her and down the long length of the table at the Huntsman.

He doesn't look at her, instead, he is shoveling food into his mouth eagerly. Emma attempts to cover a smirk with her hand as she watches, but then the smile almost grows wider when she sees what else he is also doing.

His massive wolf brother is next to his chair, his huge height allowing his head to rest on the table comfortably, tail wagging back and forth slightly with his eyes trained on the food in front of him. Emma blinks at the wolf with the strange eyes, but just as she opens her mouth to comment on the matter, the Huntsman suddenly pushes half of the food from his plate onto the table unceremoniously.

It is an odd sight, seeing the steak, the eggs, the tomatoes, and the bacon in a messy pile on the table – the glossy mahogany table that has always been kept clean as long as Emma can even remember. She blinks, watching the grease drip down from the food, and then the wolfs mouth opens and he too begins to gulp down the food, practically inhaling it. Emma's eyes then flick to the Huntsman, and she sees his small smile as he looks down at his brother with affection in his gaze. He seems to feel her heavy stare on his face, and he looks up at her, that affection transferring right back to her, and her mouth opens a miniscule amount as she looks directly back at him. Her heart physically hurts to even look at him, to drink in his entire appearance –

– _It's my heart Emma I need to find it –_

– and to just take everything in, every fleck of color in his irises and every shift in his expression and face. He is purely the Huntsman, (_he has a name, oh she knows it it is on the tip of her tongue and it is so close to just rolling out into the air a name, he has a name, oh what is his name_?), he is his own person, and it warms Emma down to her very core.

The Huntsman looks up, and under his beard his cheeks turn a rosy red color from slight embarrassment. "Er... my apologies."

Emma inwardly sighs in relief when her mother merely blinks and takes all of his actions in stride. "May I offer a plate or a bowl for your brother?"

"Or perhaps a chair?" James remarks snidely to nobody in particular, his head buried in several statistical scrolls of the kingdom as he scrawls out unknown words with a feathered quill.

Snow shoots him a supposedly discrete warning glare.

The wolf already cleaned up his food supply and was currently licking any leftover grease off of the table enthusiastically.

Emma smiles down at her plate while biting her bottom lip, her fingers falling off of her lap and hanging to the side to brush at the top of Pup's soft furry head with a gentle stroke.

The Huntsman coughs awkwardly, hoping for easy forgiveness. "It appears my manners are a tad... rustic."

"It's quite alright, Huntsman," Snow says with a charming smile. Emma wonders how forced it really is. "Would either you or your brother like some more helpings of food?"

He does not answer, instead he only chugs the remainder of a serving pitcher filled with freshly squeezed orange juice almost eagerly. He seems to notice that they are all awaiting for any kind of answer (except, perhaps, her father, who seems to write with a vice-like grip on his quill), and he coughs slightly due to his mouth being full of food. He is unable to get any coherent words out, but he gets his point across by nodding enthusiastically.

Emma smiles. The tips of the Huntsman's ears turn a rather bright red as he notices, and quickly looks down at his plate again. Servants appear almost out of no where and pile more delicious breakfast options onto his plate. Almost immediately, another plate is placed next to his own and filled with meats for the wolf, who licks his chops in response.

"Thank you," says the Huntsman, and the memory flashes behind Emma's eyes so fast she almost misses it completely, almost misses the quiet and loving whisper of _"thank you_" for only her ears, and the warmth of hands cupping her cheeks. She blinks several times, disoriented by the flashes, and quickly stabs a fork into a pile of eggs on her own plate to distract herself, her eating utensils clacking loudly and echoing around the large room.

_I'm going insane,_ she thinks to herself. The words have been a mantra in her head since these visions began. She had kept her mouth shut concerning them, feeling that if she didn't acknowledge them aloud or to anyone else, then they didn't really exist. Suddenly, her mind turns to the strange man in the lower trading district, with his ostentatious orange overcoat and clashing scarves intricately tied high up around his neck. Jefferson.

_But could it be true,_ she questions mentally to herself. Can there be other worlds? Worlds of strange starred gold badges, of short leather jackets and collared shirts paired with vests and ties, a world where the Huntsman can touch her cheek and gaze at her with the sincerity and intimacy of a lover?

She freezes in her seat, and the mad man's words come to her, unbidden, in her mind. _How arrogant are you to assume that yours is the only one? _

Very arrogant, indeed.

It sounds like something from a novel, realizes Emma. An alternate world that is populated with the same people. Her mind automatically rejects the idea, and she begins to feel silly just by thinking of the possibility.

Emma sighs inwardly, her non-dominant hand gripping the wooden table. Her knuckles begin to turn white from the strain. Her mother seems to notice her difficulties, and she regards Emma with a curious look, eyebrows furrowing to create a line in between the perfectly smooth alabaster skin.

"Forgive me if I am prying, Huntsman," Snow says suddenly to interrupt the festering silence, "But where do you live?"

He shrugs, but he is also careful to look her in the eyes after he finishes chewing. "Everywhere and no where, Your Majesty."

James arches an eyebrow. "That was quite an ambiguous answer, Huntsman."

Emma interjects into the conversation easily. "He roams the forests, Father. His brother is his pack."

The Huntsman nods, his eyes sliding from the blonde princess to the king. "Exactly. While this may seem off topic, I wanted... to thank Your Majesty for passing the poaching laws."

The king's right eyebrow lifts in surprise, but he says nothing. He doesn't notice Emma's smile, but the Huntsman definitely does out of the corner of his eye.

The hunter continues, "Without them a lot more of my brothers and sisters would've been killed."

The Huntsman's voice turns dark halfway through his statement, and Emma knows that he is remembering the brutal slayings of his own pack mates. She longs to reach across the table and grab his hand, to give it a reassuring squeeze, but she knows this would be highly inappropriate. It is strange, she thinks, that if the casual touches they had exchanged outside of the castle walls were to be repeated in the presence of the castle guards and its monarchs, it would be highly scrutinized and met with obvious displeasure.

All she can manage is a sympathetic smile in the Huntsman's direction. He accepts it with his own grim one in return.

Their looks had not gone unnoticed, apparently. Both her mother and her father's eyes follow the twos movements almost clinically with knowing gazes, taking in the silent exchange with the fast movement of their eyes. The king and queen look at each other, sharing their own silent looks that swell with several emotions. All are too quick for Emma to analyze further.

James realizes he has not acknowledged the Huntsman's acceptance and praise yet. "No need to thank me, Huntsman. While the laws are not as enforced as I would like them to be, it was the logical thing to do."

Snow lets out an exasperated sigh at her husband's almost hostile rebuttal and manners.

The Huntsman merely says quietly in reply, "Be that as it may, I thank you all the same."

His tone is so soft that Emma finds herself looking away from her parents and across the table at the Huntsman, her hazel eyes meeting his own blue ones.

The two stare at each other for a while, both of trying to say something with their eyes simultaneously, and Snow sighs almost dreamily and looks at her husband, who smiles back after several moments.

Suddenly, a door slams open, disturbing the foursome from their own thoughts, and Emma breaks the stare she was holding with the Huntsman, whipping around in her chair to take a good look at the newcomer in the room. She blinks, and recognizes the familiar presence of Delly.

The woman in question curtsies, her neck and knees bending gracefully, before she straightens up and turns to Emma. She holds up a silver platter with a yellow parchment letter folded up, with a loopy feminine script spelling out her name.

"A letter for you, Your Highness," Delly says.

Pup sits up at the same time as Emma does. She is careful not to trip over her own feet as she walks over to her handmaiden and accepts the letter with a smile and a soft '_thank you_'.

"Your Highness." Delly says stiffly in reply, before curtsying again and walking out of the room swiftly.

Emma can barely contain her flinch.

The door Delly entered in closes loudly, the echo of the slam causing the others to be confused. Emma sighs, and quickly opens up the letter and scans the contents.

"It's from Alexandra!" Emma exclaims, grinning up at her parents. They smile back at her, but with their eyes filled with some confusion.

"How strange, didn't you just receive a letter from her two days ago?" Snow inquires, her head cocking to the right.

Emma begins to frown. "Yes. I wonder why she writes to me before I could pen my own response?"

She can feel the confused gaze of the Huntsman digging into the side of her head, but she ignores it as she begins to scan the letters contents.

_My Dear Emma,_

_Do not fret for the reason of my early correspondence. I am simply inquiring about your state of being – emotional or physical, it does not matter to me. My parents and myself grow wary of all the rebel activity that seem to be escalating in your kingdom. For some strange reason, these uprisings don't seem to be happening as much in my own kingdom as they have been in yours. These "truth-seekers", as they have dubbed themselves, also have not been reported in Ariel and Eric's kingdom, either. (Melody says hello, by the way. Ariel is also expecting another child, she reports. How exciting!)_

_But back to the main point, Emma, is that I'm growing increasingly concerned about your frequent escapades into the villages and forests surrounding your castle. I know that you are more than capable of protecting yourself, what with your warrior goddess tendencies, along with Pup trailing after you dotingly – it's just that I fear for your safety! These rebels seem to be ruthless, Emma, and I'm afraid that they will eventually figure out who you really are if you keep sneaking out of the castle. They blame the royalty for whatever issues they think they are having, and when they find out you are royalty... I don't even want to think about what they might do to you._

_Anyway, my point is that my parents told me that if you and your family wanted to visit our kingdom sooner, than you could! Just write a reply as soon as possible, and then I'll get to see you again, finally! The twins, Sean and Ashley, miss you so much! All they seem to talk about is either you or Pup._

_I hope to receive a letter from you soon._

_Yours,_

_Princess Alexandra_

_P.S: Pinocchio can come too, if he so desires. _

_P.S.S: Not that I specifically want him to. It was merely a suggestion._

Emma smiles down at Alexandra's letter, from the overly formal tone to the subtle suggestion for inviting Pinocchio along with her parents. The child-like crush the two of them have for each other amused her greatly, but frustrated her as well because of their refusal to acknowledge their feelings aloud to one another. The two had a dance, a carefully executed and meticulously planned one that gave no answers or climax to the potential relationship that would flourish between them.

She slides back into her seat at the table smoothly, and she folds up the letter and slides it back into the envelope it came in. "Alexandra and her family have invited us to come to their kingdom as soon as possible."

Snow looks pleasantly surprised, but questions her daughter nonetheless. "And you wish to leave that soon?"

"Perhaps," Emma shrugs.

Her father nods down at his plate as he scoops up the last pieces of his breakfast onto his fork. "In the next couple of days then, we shall leave."

"What's the rush, Charming?" Snow teases, a smirk pulling at her lips.

Emma wrinkles her nose at her parents easy flirting and turns away from the two, missing the loving look the couple shares and the mirth in their eyes at the spoken nickname her mother always tossed at the king.

Instead, she looks up ahead of her, only to see the Huntsman shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he stares back at her. He doesn't look ashamed to be caught staring at her unabashedly, instead he gives her a soft smile, a barely there twitch of his mouth that is almost completely hidden beneath his scruff. But Emma still sees it, and she fights to hide the shiver that crawls up and down her spine.

She is still looking at him when the Huntsman breaks their interlocked gazes with some difficulty, and looks at her parents. Emma furrows her eyebrows and looks down at her hands folded in her lap, a light blush tinting her cheeks.

"Forgive me for the interruption, Your Majesties, but it is time for me to make my leave."

/|\

* * *

**I KNOW. THIS WAS A FILLER CHAPTER AND IT WAS LATE! There are many reasons for my lateness: hospital, computer breaking, etc... but it's here now. I hope you guys enjoyed it... There is a LOT to come in the following chapters... I'm really excited about them.**

**Here's a snippet of the next chapter:**

**" **It's a broken and choked whisper that comes out of her throat. "Don't look at me like that."

His eyes flash, with something akin to desperation and confusion with such overwhelming sadness that Emma fights to urge to step back away from him and reach out to hug him simultaneously. He runs his hands over his shaggy and curly brown hair, gripping and pulling at the strands.

"Why do you care how I look at you?" It's almost a growl, and Emma blushes at the sudden depth of his accent.

She doesn't know what to say, so she just blurts, "Because!"

And then he is in front of her, towering over her with his face so close to her own, his blue eyes burning into her hazel ones, and he says darkly, "Because _what_?" "

** Am I evil or what, leaving that teaser for you? The story is about 30,000 words now... reviews make me write faster!**

**Please leave a review!**


	8. The Calm Before Storms

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

**/|\**

Her parents break away from their hushed conversation, shock evident on their faces. Emma suddenly feels nauseous.

"'Make your leave'? Whatever for?" Snow asks politely, genuine confusion in her bright green eyes.

The Huntsman clears his throat. "I have taken advantage of Your Majesty's kind treatment and hospitality. You have given my brother and myself a roof over our heads and a hot meal – it is much more than we could have ever hoped for."

"You should stay," Emma blurts out.

He looks at her, a little shocked. It takes several moments for the Huntsman to compose himself before he lets out a strangled, "Why?"

What was she supposed to say after_ that _question of his? It is an incredulous response, full of self doubt and surprise, but it is just blunt and harsh enough that it almost makes her visibly flinch.

There is a tense silence, and then the Huntsman seems to realize his mistake and swallows loudly. "My brother grows weary from the shelter – he, like myself, is unused to it. His heart longs for the wild, as does mine right now."

Her father nods, while her mother looks disappointed.

Emma doesn't know what to feel.

The wolf finishes his meal, licking the plate to a pristine white color again, as if there was no found there in the first place. His two different colored eyes blink as he licks his jowls with boredom. The Huntsman removes the napkin from his lap and stands up from the table. Emma abruptly pushes her own chair back, the screech of the wood dragging across the floor, echoing around the room loudly.

He looks at her blankly, a mild sort of surprise written across his face.

"I'll see you to the gates," Emma explains awkwardly.

The Huntsman nods and turns to look at her parents, giving them a respectful bow. "Your Majesties, I thank you again for your hospitality and your understanding." It is all he says before turning on his heel in the opposite direction, not even waiting for a response. Emma blinks rapidly, shooting her parents an apologetic look as she bounds after him, Pup trotting at her heels, tail wagging slightly.

The knights allow them to pass as the two leave the great hall and move through the corridor to the entrance of the castle. The sun is rising, turning the light streaming in from the windows a lovely hybrid color of pink and orange and gray. Emma hurries her pace to catch up to the fast-moving Huntsman as he reaches the door, signaling the guards to open it. They shrug and begin to push open the heavy wooden door; it rattles with age and effort. The floor finally stops rumbling and shaking as the door finally creaks to a halt, the morning breeze pushing her blonde curls back.

The Huntsman looks out at the lake surrounding the castle, and the long winding bridge road down to the village and the surrounding woods. He looks down and fidgets with his leather gloves. "Goodbye, Your Highness," he says stiffly as he strides past her, his brother following after him.

"What," Emma blurts out stupidly. "That's it?"

He stops, his head barely turning to look back at her. "What else is there to say?"

Her eyes begin to sting. Gods, what is wrong with her? "You're not even looking at me."

The Huntsman turns slowly, his shoulders stiff and blue eyes smoldering as he faces her. He isn't really _looking_ at her, though. It is as if he is looking right through her completely. His eyes seem to pass right around and over her as if she is just some unimportant and unnoticeable smattering of fog or smoke in the line of his vision.

"Was that a command you just gave me, Your Majesty?" He questions coldly.

The light of the sun rise reflecting off of the lake nearly blinds her. (In the back of her mind, she knows that this is her only valid excuse for the tears building up behind her eyelids. Emma hasn't cried in a long long time, and she refuses to let him see her like this. Not now. Perhaps not even ever.) A sob seems to crawl up her throat. He is still looking at her, just like she had asked and wanted, but it isn't true, it isn't real. It isn't how he looked at her before he came to her home, the castle.

It's a broken and choked whisper that comes out of her throat. "Don't look at me like that."

His eyes flash with something akin to desperation and confusion with such overwhelming sadness that Emma fights to urge to step back away from him and reach out to hug him simultaneously. He runs his hands over his shaggy and curly brown hair, gripping and pulling at the strands.

"Why do you care how I look at you?" It's almost a growl, and Emma blushes at the sudden depth of his accent.

She doesn't know what to say, so she just blurts, "Because!"

And then he is in front of her, towering over her with his face so close to her own, his blue eyes burning into her hazel ones, and he says darkly, "Because _what_?"

Emma openly gapes at him, her neck craning to look up at him and meet his eyes. The tip of his nose brushes against her own so lightly she wonders if she imagines it. He is too close, so close that she can count the different flecks of brown and blue in his eyes, so close that she can count each individual eyelash he possesses, so close that all Emma has to do is lean up to him, balance on the tip of her toes just to breach the small gap in between them. He is fully up against her body now, their lips only separated by not even a hairs-width.

His right hand snakes up to her cheek, his rough palm cupping her face, thumb gently stroking the apple of her cheek. She has no idea what she is doing anymore, and she has the feeling that he also has no idea either. Both of their common senses seem to have leaped off the stone bridge that the two are standing on. But something echoes in the back of her mind, several strings of whispered words that she knew have never came from his mouth (_not in this reality, at least; how arrogant are you to assume that yours is the only one?_) ring in her ears: "_I remember. Thank you._"

She smiles, and there is a small barely there smile on his own face as well. So close, she thinks again, all she has to do is lean in.

There is an awkward cough. "...Your Highness?"

The Huntsman hand stiffens on her cheek, his entire body rigid, and Emma turns her head to the side, still leaning against the form of the Huntsman. In this new position, he is leaning his head against the curls of her blonde hair, and she can hear him breathe in and out very slowly, her hair moving with his breath. Emma fights to calm herself as well, and she feels pride when her voice is completely blank when she answers the guard, "Yes?"

The guard in the armor straightens. "Your parents were worried about what was taking so long, so they told me to check up on you."

Emma blinks, and the Huntsman takes one or two unsteady steps back away from her, eyes wide and pupils blown as he gazes right at her.

"Right," Emma swallows nervously. "Tell them... that I'll... uh, be right back inside momentarily."

"Of course, Your Highness." The guard bows, eyes scanning the scene in front of him before he turns and strides back into the castle.

Emma nervously wrings her hands together, her heart racing in her chest, and she straightens out her neck to look at the Huntsman. He is still staring directly at her, his hand still outstretched, mimicking the gesture of his hand on her cheek – the earlier position that was interrupted.

"Your Highness," He breathes, his voice nearly lost in the light wind. "I should leave."

An irrational burst of panic consumes her for a second. "You could stay."

The Huntsman lets out a self-deprecating bark of laughter. "There is nothing for me here in a castle like this. I am nothing, I _have _nothing. I – I'm not built for a place like that. Like_ this_..."

He trails off, examining the mud-covered hem of his cloak, the silence becoming deafening.

"You have me," Emma mumbles.

His head whips up, an incredulous expression crossing his face. "What did you just say?"

_I shouldn't have said that aloud_, Emma thinks as her palms break out into a cool sweat. Their almost kiss is already driving her further and further towards the brink of insanity. She discretely wipes them on the back of her dress, trying to avoid eye contact with the Huntsman.

"I said," Emma starts again, speaking slowly and looking up at the cloudless sky. "You have me."

The heels of his feet shuffle against the cobblestone, and she looks back down to eye-level at the half-strangled sound that escapes from the Huntsman's throat. She isn't sure if he is either elated or heartbroken.

"Oh, Emma," He whispers, his voice cracking. "I've never had you."

That stings, like the truth often does, but is it really the truth? Does she _want_ it to be the truth?

She blinks at him, and he stares back at her, and their concentration breaks when his wolf brother pushes against her leg, circling around towards the Huntsman, eager to return to the woods, their home.

She steps closer to him, her hand reaching into her cloak pocket, and she pulls out a small blue handkerchief. She is in his personal space now, and she ignores the way her breathing hitches as he opens his palm to receive the gift. Gently, she places the handkerchief in his hand, and he clasps his fingers around her, warmth seeping into her cool hands at the touch.

"You needed a new handkerchief, Huntsman," Emma says quietly. "That yellow one is getting quite old, don't you think?"

He smiles wistfully. "Now I have two tokens from Your Highness. All of the noble knights in the kingdom will be jealous."

She isn't sure if he is teasing her or just trying to lift the heavy mood. "You are far more noble then the entirety of the kings guards, Huntsman. Never forget that."

She retracts her hand from his grasp, and she rocks back onto the heels of her feet. Pup carefully nudges her knee, gaining her full attention and a smile down at her wolf sister. She can still sense the Huntsman, and she can practically feel the indecision rolling off of him in waves. Her eyes close, as if holding back tears, and then the warm presence comes closer. There is a spot of warmth on the middle of her forehead, a hand cradling the top of her head, and it takes several long moments for her to realize that he is kissing her forehead.

He lingers there for several moments that seems too short and too long at the same time, and he takes a step back, one hand still tangled in her golden hair.

Her eyes open, and his are still closed.

"Where will you go?" She asks lowly.

It takes several moments for him to gather his wits and reply. "East or north. South or west. Wherever my instincts may lead me."

Whatever he says is always frustratingly vague, but this time she lets it slide without further questioning.

"Will you come back and find me again?" Her voice is quiet and unsure.

His eyes open finally, his blue eyes searching her face – for what, she wasn't sure. "I think I won't have to search for you, Your Highness... you always seem to find _me_ instead."

The Huntsman sticks his new handkerchief into the pocket of his traveling furs. Emma looks up at the sky, praying and willing her unshed tears to disappear. The two fidget there, a large gap separating them, and finally the Huntsman inclines his head.

"Your Highness," He says, his tone final. It is the goodbye that she wants to keep putting off.

Emma digs her fingernails into her palm at the formalities. Her mouth opens to respond with something, with anything, but all that comes out is an unsteady, "Farewell."

She watches him follow the bridge towards the woods, his wolf brother trotting happily behind him at his feet. She can hear his footsteps pounding against the stone, and she still stares after him when the shadows of the forest swallows his entire form up.

She feels like he took a piece of her with him. Her mouth is hanging open slightly, a line in between her furrowed eyebrows, her face a perfect example of incredulity.

Pup whines slightly, her eyes widening as she looks up at Emma, a pleading expression in her gaze.

"I'll miss them too, Pup," She says, several of her fingers stroking the top of Pup's head soothingly. She stood there for a while, enjoying the warmth that caresses her face from the rising sun, her head tilted back and eyes closed.

Emma isn't sure how long she stands there, but eventually she turns away from the gorgeous scenery, and slowly trudges back into the castle.

_I will never see him again,_ She thinks to herself grimly as she made her way back to the grand hall where her parents were waiting for her.

Her heart physically aches – _It's my heart, Emma, I need to find it_ – with the loss of this total stranger, this Huntsman whom she barely knows and is already beginning to dominate all of her main thoughts.

The large wooden door slams behind her as she walks down the hall.

She doesn't notice the dark shape in the mirror that flickers out of existence when she walks past it.

**/|\**

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***waves* Hey, hi, hello my dear readers. THIS STORY IS ONLY JUST BEGINNING. SO MUCH IS GOING TO HAPPEN SOON I'M REALLY EXCITED ABOUT IT. ****And next chapter we're getting a Huntsman POV in it... should be fun, yeah? I haven't decided if I want his chapter to be an interlude (It's about 1,000 words of him angsting... my poor baby...) Anyway, hope you guys liked this chapter... had a lot of fun writing this one.**

**Here's a snippet of the next chapter:**

**" **Oh, and he sees how the wolves react around her, they worship her and they revere her, and he follows suit every time he sees her. She is his heart in human form, with those red dresses (he thinks that she has a red leather jacket, doesn't she?) and that red blush of hers; she is the goodness he can never be or ever hope to achieve.

He never felt anything before her, but now he feels, he feels too much.

It's surreal.

The Wolf Princess, the people of her kingdom call her. The title fits her well. To him, she is not just the princess, she is the queen, _his _queen.

Wolves mate for life, and she is it for him. ** "**

**Please leave a review, it makes me write faster!**


	9. Interlude I: Beating Hearts

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

**Interlude I**

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/|\

He loves her. Can it really be that simple?

The Huntsman snorts to himself as he treads through the woods, his brother a ways ahead of him sniffing the moist earth, tracking a herd of elk. No, he decides, it can never be that simple, because she is everything and golden and warm and the princess, while he is just wildling hunter – literally raised by the wolves.

He can never have her, and his chest aches because of that, it burns. He doesn't have a heart – he knows he doesn't, because he would've felt it beating and thumping with emotions at some point in his life, wouldn't he? – and now he feels everything.

Oh, and he sees how the wolves react around her, they worship her and they revere her, and he follows suit every time he sees her. She is his heart in human form, with those red dresses (he thinks that she has a red leather jacket, doesn't she?) and that red blush of hers; she is the goodness he can never be or ever hope to achieve.

He never felt anything before her, but now he feels, he feels too much.

It's surreal.

The Wolf Princess, the people of her kingdom call her. The title fits her well. To him, she is not just the princess, she is the queen, _his _queen.

Wolves mate for life, and she is it for him.

His brother lets out a bark up ahead, and the Huntsman shakes his head as if to dislodge these wanton thoughts from clinging to his conscious. He leans forwards, back bending to allow the bracken and ferns to hide his form, and he makes his way forward silently. He crouches behind a fallen log next to his brother, whose different colored eyes never stray from the smallest elk of the herd.

The Huntsman silently slides an arrow from his quiver and aims, the string of his bow straining from the stretch. He releases the arrow.

The elk hits the ground immediately after.

The herd lets out grunts of alarm and sprint into the woods, the wolf barking at their heels, excited at the prospect of the chase. He emerges from the underbrush and kneels besides the still struggling animal. Sighing, he presses one hand on its ribs, gently stroking the brown fur. With his other hand, he pulls out a knife and efficiently cuts the throat, killing the animal instantly, with mercy.

Overwhelming sadness flows through him, his shoulders hunching as the emotion weighs down heavily on him. This animal died so that he and his brother may live to hunt another day, and for that he is eternally grateful. He feels honored.

By the time his brother emerges from the forests, muzzle red from a fresh kill and panting from his run, it is dark outside, and the small clearing is flickering orange and yellow from the small fire he had started. The Huntsman looks up from the elk, blinking at his brother in a silent greeting, before he looks back down from his work – he is skinning his kill, separating the fat from the lean edible meat and the furs. The furs lay in one pile, ready to be cleaned and eventually sewn for warmth.

At the thought of warmth, the Huntsman shivers. The leaves were already beginning to turn red and brown for the upcoming autumn season. He pulls himself closer to the fire and spins the elk meat on the stick, trying to evenly cook it through.

His brother whines as he gazes at the meat.

The Huntsman grunts. "You already ate, brother."

The wolfs ear twitches downwards, but he snorts.

He snatches the stick from the fire and begins chewing on the meat. It isn't the best he had tasted, but it was food and it was warm, so he ate it gratefully. Fresh food would be harder to come buy in the winter moons, and he knew to eat as much as possible before that particular season starts.

_You could always just get food at the castle_, A snide voice inside of him says.

No, he can't get food at the castle because _she _is there, and he can't be caught in that web of dependency on her. Not again.

The food is quickly gone, and he is left just the bright embers of the fire to keep him warm. His brother lay beside him, chewing on the leg bone of the elk noisily.

He keeps waiting for Emma to show up, pushing the ferns out of her way while holding piles of fire wood in her arms, that smile stretching across her face as she teases him about something or other. The Huntsman groans and places his head in his hands, willing his mind to empty its contents.

He is unaware that the vision of her with him, in this little camp huddled by a fire and swaddled in furs, would make him so happy. _Too_ happy. His heart aches even more than before just by knowing that he will never be able to obtain that scenario.

Princesses, even the wolf ones, are not meant to be wild like him. He can't give her everything she could ever want or need, and he decides that is what hurts the most. He doesn't know much about love, he only knows what he had observed with his old pack, of the alpha and his trusted mate. You either love someone in their entirety, or you don't love at all. It is that simple when it comes to wolves. With people, it is sneaky and full of lies, shallow and self serving, and the Huntsman is glad that nothing can ever come of his love for fear of it turning into something awful.

He is more wolf than human, and he is afraid to taint something as pure and seemingly fragile as this love with unneeded dark emotions and the worlds many corruptions.

What would he even do, if he was with her? They can't raise any pups out here in the wilderness, would they just travel and wander together? His hands that are holding his head squeezes harder, pulling at his hair harshly. Gods, he is going insane; he's never had any of these thoughts before, but now he is full of what ifs and these strange flashes of different worlds – _you have a heart – _and images of her, some he recognizes and others he does not.

His brother howls to the moon, and the Huntsman resists the urge to throw his own head back and join him.

The weight of their potential is heavy on his beating heart, the heart he didn't even realize he had, the heart that seems to only beat her name now: _Emma, Emma, Emma._

/|\

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**ANNNNNNGGGST. Wow, okay, so I posted this a little earlier than I had originally planned BECAUSE IT IS MY BIRTHDAY TODAY! **

**Hope you guys liked this interlude. I like the insight it gave into the Huntsman head. And I know it's shorter than my other chapters; but that is only because it's just an interlude! And boy, next chapter you guys are in for a treat... we're going to get some real action soon.**

**Here's a little preview of the next chapter (back to Emma's POV!):**

**" **"Last one," He says, his voice cracking. "Your mom and dad told me – before I got you – to tell you to find someone."

Emma inches her way down into the hidden cave-like tunnel. She finally reaches the bottom, already covered in cobwebs. She rests her head on the stone floor of the cell and looks at Pinocchio with questioning eyes, waiting for him to continue with one eyebrow raised.

Pinocchio's face is blank of any expression. "You have to find Graham."

Emma's heart constricts, but she doesn't know why. "Who?" **"**

**Should be an interesting chapter, huh guys? **

**Please leave a review!**


	10. The Escape

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

**/|\**

Several days pass, and Emma remains in her depressed state of mind.

She's laying on her bed next to her trunk, dresses spread haphazardly around her when her mother enters the room.

"Emma?" She says softly. Emma grunts in reply.

"Oh sweetheart," Snow sighs, sitting next to her daughter and stroking her hair. "You let him behind those walls of yours, didn't you?"

The princess lifts her head out of the crook of her elbow, stray blonde strands of hair sticking to her face. "What are you talking about?"

Her mother continues to soothingly stroke her hair, and Emma feels herself relax under the touch. "You've had that wall... for a long time, Emma. Ever since I could remember..."

Emma is struck with such an acute sense of d_éjà_ vu that she finds herself fighting the urge to hyperventilate. It takes her several moments for her to realize that her mother is still talking. Quickly, she tries to tune back into it.

"...it _may_ keep out pain, but it also will keep out love."

Emma fumbles on her bed, twisting around in her dress as she tries to sit up, her hazel eyes meeting the identical ones of her mother, her chest heaving slightly. "You've said this to me before."

Snow's eyes widen, her face losing her usual rosy blush. "What?"

Emma gazes at her mother, blinking rapidly, her vision flickering. One second, her mother is in front of her, with her long black hair and elaborate gown, and then there is another image of her. While this vision is the same woman, their hair was drastically different – the second flash has short cropped hair, with delicate strange clothing.

A choked sob threatens to escape from her throat. "I'm going insane," Emma whispers, her eyes filling with tears. It feels like a load if off of her shoulders and chest, and now she feels so unbearably light that she begins to shake.

"Emma," Her mother reaches out and pulls her daughter closer to her, resting her head in the crook of her own neck, her other hand rubbing her back in slow circles. "Tell me what you need."

"There's something wrong with me," Emma gasps out, frantic to take in air and ignoring her mother's inquiry. "I see things, I see things that I can't even comprehend. I see a world that shouldn't exist – _doesn't _exist!"

Her mother is very still, and Emma continues to babble to hide her full-fledged panic attack. "I – I hear things. Flashes of these phrases that I have never h-heard, but they're so familiar that I actually think I've lived it before. It's like these visions are my home, not this place, not this castle that has turned into my prison. I want to go to this place, to this world, where we are older and is so strange but welcoming all at once."

"We?" Snow questions, her face and tone carefully schooled to show calm. "Emma, who is _we_?"

Emma freezes, and then she just whispers, "The Huntsman."

There is a tense moment of silence, silence so utterly complete that her ears begin to ring, muffling everything around her. Panic clutches at her insides, and Emma suddenly wonders if she has said too much. But she opens her stupid mouth again and says more. "I know him, Mom. I've always known him."

The mattress creaks underneath them as Snow shifts her position carefully, her hand still stroking her daughter's blonde locks. "And how do you know him, Emma?"

Her response is a muffled whisper. "I don't _know._"

"Yes you do know, Emma," Snow says quietly as she rubs her hand in circles on Emma's back. "Just think about it."

All that she wants to say is at the tip of her tongue, constantly mocking her. She doesn't know, she doesn't know where she knows the Huntsman, and all she wants is answers.

"I don't," Emma admits, her chest shaking with barely concealed sobs. "I don't – don't. Know. I don't know."

Pup looks up at the sound of Emma's cries, her ears pricked upright as she observes the scene in front of her.

The two stare at each other for a while, the room growing quieter and quieter by the passing second. Emma rakes through her brain, over analyzing every memory and every flash she had experienced of this other world, and Emma opens her mouth to say something –

A high pitched shriek can be heard echoing around the castle. Scuffling sounds, the obvious signs of a struggle make Emma sit up, her mother already standing to her feet. Pup pulls herself up as well, her teeth bared and a menacing snarl escaping her jowls.

The scream sounds again, and everyone is frantically pushing open the door. The stone corridor is lit up by the sunshine, but even the sun couldn't hide the horrors that await them, the rays reflecting off of the crimson, staining the hall in a dark reddish color.

The red is everywhere. Blood.

The patrolling guards lie at her feet, their armor slashed open, their life blood dripping and staining the stone floor. Emma barely has any time to process what is in front of her when her mother begins to herd her back into her bedroom.

Snow is babbling. "Stay here Emma, I'll go get guards and get your father, you'll be fine. Everything is fine."

Emma barely pays attention as she cranes her head to look over her mother's shoulder, and she lets out a cry at the sight of another bleeding body propped up against the wall.

"_Delly!_"

She pushes past her mother and she comes to a skidding halt next to her handmaiden, her knees scraping against the harsh stone. She ignores the stinging of her new cuts. "Delly, please open your eyes, look at me!" Emma turns her head back to see behind her, to call for help or just _something_, only to find her mother disappearing down the hall and around a corner. Good, she thinks. She's going to get a healer or guards or her maybe even her father. Everything is okay.

Everything will be okay.

Delly's brown eyes appear from beneath her eyelids. Emma gives a shaky grin, tears rolling down her red cheeks. "What happened, Delly?"

Delly groans and she spits up some red blood; it drips down to her chin. Emma barely hides her cringe.

"Rebels," Delly gasps, her fingers ghosting over the stab wound on her stomach almost absentmindedly. "They're h – here."

"Shh, it's okay," Emma soothes, fighting down the panic that seems to be clawing up her throat against her will. She shifts her position so she is able to pull Delly into her lap. She grunts a little bit, but she rests her forehead on top of Delly's brown hair. (She ignores the way blood soaks into her own clothes and stains her skin with the bright red that makes her flashback to when she was almost killed as a child.) "You'll be okay, I'm here."

Delly coughs, a bubble of blood escaping her lips. Emma wants to dry heave at the sound of the sickening gurgle.

"Run, Your Highness," Delly murmurs, her voice growing fainter and fainter. Her breathing stops.

"No," Emma says, her face and voice blank and devoid of any emotion. "No no no no. No no. No. _Delly_!"

Pup lets out a whine next to her as she continues to shake Delly's motionless form. "Delly, come on get up. Please."

She isn't sure how long she sits there, but finally the crashing and the echoes of swords against swords rouses her from her stupor. Emma blinks, her eyes stinging, but she realizes that smoke is billowing into the hallway.

Coughing, Emma gently puts down the body of Delly, a mantra of a constant string of _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ filling her head. The guilt is like poison, it seeps into her deeply and grabs a hold of her stomach. She grabs the wall for support and pulls herself to her feet; she thinks she might vomit. There is a brief moment of vertigo but she leans against the wall and continues down the hall, Pup keeping pace next to her. Both of them pant.

She's shaking slightly, from shock or adrenaline she isn't sure, but suddenly a body crashes into her and she loses her ability to breathe. Masculine arms reach out to steady her, and Emma squints her eyes to see who it is.

"Pinocchio?" She says, her voice incredulous. "What's happening?"

"We gotta get out of here," He ignores her, pulling her down another long hallway. Emma hears more cries from downstairs, in the main hall – where she was only hours earlier.

_They're storming the castle!_ Emma screams internally, but keeps her mouth shut. She can't open her mouth, the smoke is billowing up around her like a heavy fog, itching her throat and irritating her nose.

Pinocchio pulls her along quickly, their feet pounding against the floor as they whip past corners, taking multiple short cuts. He keeps muttering to himself as they storm down a winding staircase, coming closer and closer to the action and the fighting. Pinocchio keeps hissing to himself under his breath, and Emma tries to tug her hand out of his grip, but he doesn't let go and only moves faster.

Her lungs begin to ache as she coughs, her palm cupping over her mouth to keep all the smoke out. Pinocchio coughs too, but he doesn't pause. In fact, he quickens his pace, his strides progressively growing longer and longer then her own.

Emma tugs at his hand, the heels of her feet dragging across the floor. "Stop, I got to go find my parents!" He does not listen, instead he throws her an exasperated look over his shoulder. "Gods, Pinocchio, stop!"

More screaming resounds around the castle, echoing off of the walls. Emma's cold hands begin to sweat. Pup ran in circles around the two, as if she is trying to herd them to safety, her teeth baring at the smoke and any unseen enemy.

She isn't sure how long they run, it could be minutes it could be hours, but finally they reach the dungeon. Pinocchio thrusts her into the wooden door, pushing past the empty and cold metal cells until they reach the last one. The floor is covered in hay and straw, with one measly barred window too high up to look through.

"Throwing me in jail won't protect me," Emma hisses venomously, her fingernails digging into her palm, resisting the urge to start punching him.

Pinocchio closes the cell door with a loud clang; she's trapped while he is calmly watching her from the outside, locking the door. Emma launches up to the bars, clinging onto the cool and rusty metal as she fixes her steady glare at Pinocchio. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" she growls, her knuckles turning white.

"Underneath the hay in the left hand corner of your cell is a trap door," He begins slowly, emphasizing his words.

"You think you can just leave me in here to – I … what?"

Pinocchio grabs one of her hands that is clutching the bar, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Follow the tunnel. You'll turn up by the stables. Get a horse, the fastest one that is there. Steal it. The gray dappled horse you have now is too recognizable."

"Pinocchio...?" Emma breathes out, her eyes widening as she notices the tears beginning to form in his eyes.

His blue eyes appraise hers for a second, searching them. Emma's mouth opens slightly, her eyebrows wrinkling as she shoots him a confused and heartbroken look, blinking back her own tears. From behind her, Pup begins scratching at the corner where the supposed trap door is, digging through the hay with her paws.

"We can get the rest of the castle out through the door, Pinocchio, come on," Emma pleads, shaking the cell doors fruitlessly.

A large crash can be heard from upstairs. Emma's breathing speeds up; so does Pup's digging. She barely hides her chocked back sob.

Pinocchio is looking behind him, down the hallway of cells to the winding staircase. She reaches through the bars to grab Pinocchio and pull him in for an awkward hug, the coldness of the bars burning into their warm skin and separating them. She starts trembling when they pull away, the crashing noises growing increasingly louder.

Emma turns away and scuffles to her wolf sister, helping her pull away the crinkly pieces of straw, ignoring the scratches she gets from the rough stone floor and when Pup's claws accidentally scrape her. She can still sense Pinocchio just standing there, shuffling his feet.

"Emma," he says, and she turns around to look at him, her blonde curls sticking to the small drops of sweat on her face. "Two more things."

She turns back to her digging. "Shoot."

Pinocchio rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a small leather bag and tosses it towards her. It skids for a bit before hitting her feet. She picks it up carefully, feeling the gold clanking against each other. "Buy food and a bow with that."

Emma puts it into the pocket of her cloak and nods silently. Her fingernails scrape the ground, which she finds is wooden instead of the cold stone of the floor. A small smile crosses her face when she pulls open the trap door. Air rushes up at her, surprisingly cool, but it is a blessed relief when she lets out a sigh, the sweat evaporating on her skin. Pup jumps down into the darkness, and Emma eases herself around to give one last look at Pinocchio.

"Last one," He says, his voice cracking. "Your mom and dad told me – before I got you – to tell you to find someone."

Emma inches her way down into the hidden cave-like tunnel. She finally reaches the bottom, already covered in cobwebs. She rests her head on the stone floor of the cell and looks at Pinocchio with questioning eyes, waiting for him to continue with one eyebrow raised.

Pinocchio's face is blank of any expression. "You have to find Graham."

Emma's heart constricts, but she doesn't know why.

"Who?"

Pinocchio just stares back at her. "I don't know who he is. King James and Queen Snow said he'll protect you."

Emma's hand searches for the wooden door, preparing to close it again. Her heart races faster, her vision swimming slightly as she turns to look at her childhood best friend's face – perhaps for the last time.

"I'll try." She finally whispers back.

"I know," he says quietly. He stares at her for a minute, both of them blinking rather comically at each other, before he turns around on his heels and sprints down the hallway and up the stairs, gone from her view.

Emma lets out a weary breath and slowly closes the creaking wooden trap door above her with a loud bang.

She is instantly surrounded by darkness, her eyes not used to the shadows. She feels the shudders of the castle above her, creaking and moaning in protest on its old wooden foundations. Pup nudges her shoulder with her cold nose to spur her forward. Emma waits for her eyes to adjust to the blackness before she begins to feel around the hole.

There isn't much room, she finds, and eventually she is crawling on her stomach, using her elbows to pull herself forward. The ground is damp and cold, with the occasional squeak of a mouse (or a rat, she shudders to herself) and the rustle of a large insect she hopes will remain anonymous and will never cross her path.

"Okay, Pup," she says to herself, trying to motivate herself to move forward. Her elbows and knees ached from the scraping of the hard ground. "Have to keep going. Have to get out of here."

Pup makes a grunting noise of acknowledgment, her head ducking to avoid hitting it on the low rough ceiling.

She isn't sure how long she crawls through the secret passageway, but eventually it grows lighter and lighter, the musky air being replaced by a light fresh breeze. She quickens her pace, her elbows stinging and dripping blood down her arms and around her fingers from the harsh rocks.

Emma gasps for breath as she suddenly stops, a sharp rock cutting into the center of her palm, a long streak of red marring across the otherwise smooth hand. She grits her teeth as the blood wells up and makes a sickening sloshing noise when she makes a fist. Pup makes a whining noise, the high-pitched sound shaking Emma out of her momentary pause, and she pulls herself forward once more.

Horse, she thinks to herself. I have to get a horse, food, and get a bow. Then find Graham – _it's my heart I need to find it_ – even though she doesn't know exactly who this Graham is. It isn't much of a plan, but it is all she has right now.

The earth beneath her turns soggy as she gets closer to the real word. As she gets closer to the opening, her senses are immediately assaulted by the strong scent of hay and horses. She stops shuffling forward at the mouth of tunnel. Pinocchio is right, she muses to herself as she inches forward, her eyes flickering around the open to take in her surroundings.

Seeing nothing, she pulls herself out, holding back a grunt of pain when her cut hand digs into the dirt and begins to sting even worse than before. Pup grumbles behind her as she maneuvers out of the hole as well.

The exit of the secret passage comes out beneath the roots of a large oak tree, at least a hundred years old. Emma leans against the trunk for support, shivering slightly from the cold. She hears commotion behind her, in the direction she knew the castle is in, but she doesn't turn around. In fact she sprints forward towards the stables. She ignores the way stones press up against her shoeless feet, sticking to her soles and digging further into her skin with every step she takes. She hadn't had time to get shoes before fleeing the castle.

She doesn't slow down when she reaches the large wooden structure, instead she barrels through the door and continues sprinting down the stalls. Eventually, she skids to a halt in the middle of the stables, panting.

"Hello?" She calls out, turning around in circles to look around her. "Anyone here?"

The only response is from one of the mares snorting in her stall. She isn't sure if she should be upset or glad that no one is in the stables. Shrugging it off, Emma sprints all the way down to the last row, where the wilder horses are. She passes her usual gray mare, the one she has ridden for years. The dappled horse would give her away – there aren't many gray horses in this area, and she was afraid of attracting too much attention to herself.

She considers taking her mother's horse, a friendly brown mare who is very easy going, but she ultimately decides against it when she reaches the section of the stables that held the war horses. Pup sniffs the ground idly, taking in the scents of the barn.

Emma looks at the war horses; all six of them looks back at her steadily, unblinkingly. They're a variety of colors, as well as huge, but they all had one common love: running. These horses were bred to run, run into the thicket of battle with no fear. Yes, she decides, she'll take one of these horses.

Most of the horses are a mottled brown color, but she stops in front of the stall with the buckskin horse. It is a lovely yellow color, with some black on her legs and on her ears. There is a small spot of white on her muzzle. Emma takes a quick look at the name tag that is carved into the wood of the stall door: Beetle. Perhaps it is a strange name for a war horse, but she smiles at the kind blue eyes regardless. She pulls her riding cloak closer to herself as she slips open the door. The horse – Beetle – automatically begins to look excited as she trots out. The horse is easily taller than her father. It takes several moments for her to secure the saddle properly, and when she finally does finish her task, the horse is pacing and fidgeting, ready to start a journey.

Emma closes the stall doors, hopefully so no one would notice this specific missing horse. It is a futile effort, but anything to buy time will be helpful for her. It takes a second to climb on top of Beetle, but when she does, the horse whinnies at her. Emma pats her neck and looks down at Pup. Her wolf sister blinks back up at her, her ears pricking up for any approaching sounds.

Emma holds the reigns to Beetle, steering her in a circle before facing the entrance of the stable. Nervously, she shifts her position on top of the horse and slides her bare feet more securely into the stirrups. She clicks her tongue against her teeth and dug her feet into the horses side.

Beetle rears back onto her two back legs, letting out a loud whinny, before bursting forward and into a fast canter. Emma lets out a startled gasp at the speed, while Pup barks and quickly follows after her.

The stable whips by in a flash of indistinguishable colors. The force of the wind pulls back her hood, exposing her long blonde curls. They exit the stable in barely any time at all and are winding down the only path that brings her to the mainland. The path leads to the closest town in the kingdom to the castle.

It takes several seconds for Emma to realize that everything is bathed in an eery orange flickering light. Beetle doesn't stop though, she continues at a fast-paced canter, going deeper and deeper into the woods. Finally, Emma turns around to look back at her home, and what she sees stops her heart.

The castle is burning.

Her entire body begins to tremble, and she is seriously tempted to stop Beetle and go right back home. The castle eventually disappears from view, covered by heavy layers of branches and leaves. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the forest floor calms her, the fallen autumn leaves crunching undertow. _I want to go home,_ she thinks to herself, ignoring the stinging of her tears dripping down her face.

_I have no home. Not anymore._

She thinks of Pinocchio, of Delly, of her mother and her father and the knights and the handmaidens all living in the castle, all inside the burning inferno that is (or was) her home –_ oh gods, what if they're all dead oh gods_ – and she lets out a sob; the cry is masked by the loud hoof beats and crackling leaves.

She thinks of her tasks he had given her before she crawled out to safety. She thinks about the only things she has right now: the clothes on her back, Pup, and Beetle. While it is little, all of them are extremely valuable to her. She will fight with tooth and nail to keep them together.

She leans forward so her head is next to Beetle's neck, half standing in the saddle to urge the horse faster. Pup barks from her position ext to the cantering horse, enjoying the run. The cool wind whips across her face, chilling the tear tracts that slowly drip down her cheeks. She ignores the cold sting and spurs the horse onwards.

She doesn't turn back.

**/|\**

* * *

**I know I know! I haven't been here in a long time and this chapter was delayed... and I am terribly sorry for that. But I gave you a long chapter this time, over 4,000 words! Hopefully that makes up for my absence. **

** I am overwhelmed with your response to this story guys, seriously, I love all of my reviewers very much. And I have so many future ideas for this story and I'm so excited to introduce them to you guys. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! **

**Here's a preview of the next one:**

**"**_The castle is on fire. The thick smoke spreads up into the sky, the blackness contrasting with the orange and pink colors of the sunset._

_He stares for a second, disbelief plastering across his face, and his vision flashes a deep red color, almost like the color of blood. He feels his body fail under him, like his legs are unable to support his own weight, and he desperately clings to the branch for some sort of balance._

_Emma.**"**_

**Please leave a review!**


	11. The Sanctuary of the Children

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

**/|\**

The Huntsman wakes to the sound of his brother barking frantically.

He immediately bolts upright, sleep still clawing at his brain, demanding him to just close his eyes and drift off to sleep again, to the land of oblivion. It would be all too easy to just curl back up on the forest floor, to just rest his head on top of the crook of his elbow. He rubs his eyes with a leather gloved hand, wiping away the sands that gather there in the corners when he is asleep.

Smoke.

The acrid taste is heavy on his tongue as he scrambles to his feet, ignoring the rush of blood to his head as he stands. The smoke is much more noticeable now that he is standing. His vision spots with white as he sways precariously on his feet; his hand reaches out to hold himself upright against the trunk of a nearby tree.

The white and gray vapor swirls around the forest, slowly raising higher and higher. The beams of the soft sunlight emphasize the smoke trails and dapple off of the leaves, casting patterns onto the leafy ground. The Huntsman pauses, holding his breath as he takes in the silence around him. No flaps of feathered birds wings, no quiet squeaks of foraging mice, not even the whistling of the wind as it flows through the trees, gently rattling the leaves as it flows.

His brother continues barking and whimpering, digging his paws into the dirt randomly.

"Forest fire," The Huntsman says aloud slowly, his hand unconsciously reaching into his pocket. His fingers ghost across a piece of soft fabric. He clutches it and pulls the mysterious cloth out of his pocket, only to freeze when he recognizes what it really is.

_Emma's handkerchief,_ he thinks to himself. How could he have forgotten that she had given it to him?

He thumbs the wrinkled blue fabric, and eventually brings it up to his face to cover his nose from the harsh smoke that wafts around him. He breathes in the light and flowery scent he stores and classifies as just purely Emma.

In the distance, he hears crackling of wood burning. It's a deeply unsettling noise, and the Huntsman finds himself taking a step backwards. The smoke residue and the floating ashes fall slowly, dusting the ground, the leaves, and his clothes with a light gray color.

The nearest village is several miles away, he guesses. He had been walking without stopping for several days now; the weather grows cooler as he moves northward. His brother lets out an anxious whine. The Huntsman reaches out and pats his head, trying to calm him. The wolf shakes his head, his two different colored eyes looking up at him with his intent clear: _run. Run now. Pack move, then Pack safe._

"Soon," the Huntsman says as he observes a tree next to him. The branches seem low enough, as well as having some good grips. Over all, it looks easy to climb. He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders back to prepare himself. And then he pushes off against the ground, his arms reaching out in front of him to grab onto a low hanging tree branch.

He maneuvers up the tree quickly, his movements fluid as he puts one hand in front of the other. It doesn't take long for the Huntsman to reach the top of the tree. It takes him several seconds to push away the heavy leaves and small sticks obscuring his vision, but when his view is clear, he almost slips and falls off the branch he had perched on.

The castle is on fire. The thick smoke spreads up into the sky, the blackness contrasting with the orange and pink colors of the sunset.

He stares for a second, disbelief plastering across his face, and his vision flashes a deep red color, almost like the color of blood. He feels his body fail under him, like his legs are unable to support his own weight, and he desperately clings to the branch for some sort of balance.

_Emma_.

It is like a mantra of her name in his head, over and over and over again as he struggles to push himself down the trunk of the tree, ignoring the sharp edges of sticks that scrape against his face and get stuck in his hair and clothes as he moves. _Emma, Emma, Emma. _

He hits the ground with a grunt, his legs bending down as he lands. His hands brace against the ground for a moment, and he sits there in a silly crouched position. His brother looks at him, his two different colored eyes blinking at him with a strange sense of understanding, and the Huntsman just whispers to him, "Emma."

The wolf nods, his ears twitching nervously. He seems spooked by the fire.

The Huntsman looks back at him, his eyes wide, reflecting his brothers own panicked ones.

"Emma," he repeats her name. He doesn't know why he says it again.

There is no silence in the woods anymore, the Huntsman notices. The forest he calls his home, his never ending home that spreads across so many kingdoms, is burning. The crackling of the fire is all he can hear now as it spreads across the forests, consuming everything in its path.

He had heard rumors circulating around the towns and trading districts, rumors of raids and storming the castle, but he hadn't taken them seriously, no one had ever taken them seriously. The idea of taking over the impregnable castle is ridiculous. And yet the thought digs into the Huntsman's brain relentlessly: what if they _did_ storm the castle?

And what of the royal family, did they lock them in the dungeons? Are they captured?

Is Emma _dead_?

A strangled noise escapes his throat, an exclamation that cuts through the tense atmosphere like a knife. A similar noise comes from his wolf brother as well. He would have feel it if she had died.

Wouldn't he?

He isn't sure what to do for several long moments. His eyes are wide and unblinking, his shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead of him, the now heavy smoke stinging his eyes. His wolf brother grumbles, his paws digging into the fallen leaves below him anxiously. The Huntsman jumps slightly from the unwelcome noise, and suddenly he knows what he must do.

He turns around and breaks into a sprint in the way he came, to the closest village near him.

He has to find Emma.

**/|\**

Emma isn't even halfway to the first village when the castle bells begins to toll. At first, she feels nothing past the adrenaline running through her veins, her heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears, a constant steady thrum. The bells haven't rung in centuries, not since the first ogre war, not since the castle had been taken over.

The king and queen are no longer in power.

She slumps over in the saddle, her eyes prickling with tears as she clings to the horse desperately, afraid she might fall over. Sobs strain to escape from her throat, and she swallows them back, fingernails digging around the reins in her hand into the flesh of her palms.

_The kingdom has fallen._

And she knows she has to continue; she hears Pinocchio's last words to her running in a loop over and over in her head. She doesn't have the time to stop and mope, to disappear in a shell and never come back out again. And she knows she can't, and perhaps that is why it hurts even more. Her hands that grip the reins so tightly begin to tremble violently.

_No no no_, she thinks. Her entire body begins to also tremble along with her hands, the blood roaring in her ears. _No no no no no nonononono._

Pup barks up at Emma as she lopes next to the cantering horse, her gait strong and easy. Emma turns her head from where it lays, pushed into the horses hay smelling neck, to meet the wolf's gaze. Her wolf sister blinks up at her, eyes never straying as she continues to move fluidly.

Then an arrow streaks right next to her ear.

She gasps aloud, ducking her head as another flies past her, the noise hissing in her ear. She urges Beetle faster, her heels digging into the horses sides. Several moments pass where no arrows are shot at her, and she cranes her head back to look behind her, her blonde hair whipping along with her as she moves. She can't see anyone pursuing her. Perhaps she had lost them.

Regardless, she squeezes her legs together again, imploring Beetle to go into a faster canter. The horse complies as best as she is able to. She grips the reins and yanks them to the right; Beetle careens off her current path and veers off deeper into the woods.

Emma loses count of how long she is riding. The sun had gone down hours ago, leaving the forest drenched in the inky darkness of night time. Her thighs and legs ache as she slumps over on top of the horse, who is now at a slow trot. Pup pants loudly behind her, her paws dragging against the fallen leaves as she continues to follow slowly.

The draft horse is panting loudly too, so Emma pulls back the reins gently, the horse slowing to a stop. She groans as she swings her leg around and pushes herself off of the saddle. Pup flops to the ground behind her with a weary whine. Emma fists her hands through the horses hair, gently stroking the smooth side of her cheek.

_Water_, she decides. Her entire pack needs water. Then they move onto the next village. She studies the foam gathering up in the corners of the horses mouth, watching her nostrils flare almost frantically to take in the cool air.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Emma whirls around, her arms automatically reaching behind her back, instinctively looking for her quiver full of arrows to string one in her bow. She curses in her head when she realizes she does not have her trusty weapon. Pup staggers to her paws, a fearsome snarl on her face.

It is a girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with wide hazel eyes and a frightened expression across her innocent face. Emma is struck with such an acute sense of déjà vu she almost stumbles.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" She blurts out.

The girl smiles, but her eyes flick back and forth between her and the growling wolf. "'_Wolves always find you, no matter what_'... don't you remember?"

Emma lowers her hands, which she had held in front of her in a subconscious form of self defense. "You are... you're... Jefferson's daughter? Grace?"

Grace nods, an empty wooden bucket swinging in her hands. She had gotten older. "Are you okay, miss?"

Emma nods vacantly, looking down at herself. She is covered in dirt, her simple dress thin and ragged, scratches ripping up and down the sides. Blood smears from her palms coat her arms, and her usually bright hair hangs in dingy ringlets down the side of her face. Pup ceases her aggressive snarls and growls, and walks over to Grace, tail wagging. Grace hesitantly reaches her hand forward and pats her.

There is an awkward pause, before Emma asks, "Where is your father?"

Grace looks back up at her, a conflicted expression crossing her face. "Mama and Papa left rather quickly when they heard the bells toll."

Emma winces, bile rising in the back of her throat.

The girl continues, "I was just getting water from the well. Would you, er... like to come in and wait for my Papa?"

The horse looks like she is about to pass out, Pup staggers on her own paws, and Emma feels like she is about to collapse as well. "Yes," she says, relief apparent in her voice. "Yes please."

Grace nods, shifting the weight from the bucket to her other hand and offering hero the one to Emma. Emma pulls on the reins, Beetle dutifully following after her. She grasps the soft hand; if Grace was distraught from the scrapes and cuts laced across her skin, she didn't show any reaction towards it. Pup follows along after the two silently.

The walk wasn't too long. It was quiet, the only sounds being the sloshing of the fresh well water in the bucket and the crunch of leaves under toe. A small and cozy cottage appears in the darkness, soft green moss hanging over the roof.

"We're here," Grace says suddenly. "I can tie up your horse by the front door, if that is okay with you."

Emma gives her an exhausted but grateful smile. "Yes, that would be lovely."

The girl places the bucket on the ground, her hand sticking out to the side, silently asking for the reins. Emma hands them over gently, ignoring the way her flesh burns and stings from the movement and stretching of her skin.

Grace gently ties the horse to the lantern light post outside of the front door. Beetle pants lightly, head easing toward the bucket. The girl smiles as she pets the horses soft neck, gently holding the bridle and leading it toward the liquid. Beetle catches on to the idea remarkably quick, and eagerly begins to lap up the water.

The girl moves away from the lamp post and opens the large wooden door, holding it open for Pup and Emma behind her. Emma smiles gratefully and catches the door, ignoring the way the helpful girl disappears into the dark. The door closes behind her with a silent click.

Suddenly, the cabin is illuminated from the fire place, a pleasant orange and yellow light flickering around the rooms. It smells homey, Emma decides. Straw and hay cover the ground, insulating it from the cold weather outside, while heavy hand sewn curtains cover up the glass windows. Well worn furniture covered in soft-looking fabrics is spread across the cabin. Over all, it gives off a comforting vibe.

It also smells like fresh bread. Emma's mouth waters, and her stomach grumbles even louder.

"Here," Grace says, appearing from one of the shadowy corners, a towel and large flannel nightgown in her hands. She offers them to her, arms outstretched. "These are my mother's, but they look like they'll fit you."

Emma looks at them, a line appearing in between her eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

Grace smiles, her hazel eyes kind. "Of course! I'll go get some leftovers for you. And Pup, too." She turns away, presumably to go root around in the kitchen. Emma takes the time to peel off her blood crusted gown. She winces as the cuts on her arms sting even more, her scrapes snagging against the fabric. Absently, she hopes it doesn't stain.

Emma slides over to the couch, careful to not disrupt the placement of any objects. She can hear Grace rummaging around the food storage under the floorboards. She feels like she is intruding in someone else's life. _Suck it up,_ she thinks to herself. _Accept the hospitality. Then you leave. You have to find this Graham person. _The fire feels warm as it caresses her face.

"Puppy!"

The loud, childish voice makes Emma jump in her seat. Out of the shadows appears an unsteady toddler, with a mop of brown hair that sticks straight up in every direction and laughing blue eyes.

Pup sits up from her position on the floor, her panting mouth opening in a canine grin, her tongue lolling out. The boy cackles happily as he practically falls on top of the wolf, his tiny hands fisting into the fur.

Emma smiles as the boy buries his head into Pup's neck.

Grace appears with two wooden bowls in her hands, a broad smile stretched upon her face. "Salted pork and some extra bread loaves! They're a little burned on the edges...sorry, Papa and I make them ourselves."

Emma's stomach growls even louder as she accepts the food. "This is perfect, thank you so much."

Pup whimpers, her paws shuffling on the ground as she gazes up at the second bowl, ignoring the giggling toddler attached to her.

"Charlesssssss," Grace draws out the name, placing the second bowl of food on the ground for her wolf sister. The boy looks up at her, mouth wide open in an innocent smile. "Sorry, that's my younger brother. He really loves all animals."

The boy in question pushes himself away from her wolf sister and leans back against the couch, content to fiddle with Emma's improvised sleeping shift.

"Why wearing Mama's dress?" Charles asks, his words garbled as he looks up at his sister for an answer.

Emma answers for her with an amused smile, "I'm just borrowing it for now."

Charles nods, his forehead crinkling as he processes these words, and Emma thinks he is the spitting image of his father, Jefferson. The toddler must have accepted it, she thinks, as he wraps one of his chubby arms around her leg, burying his head in the soft fabric.

"Well," Grace says, indicating to the larger bowl on the floor. "we had some raw deer flank left over, I hope that is okay for your wolf."

Emma forcefully swallows down the mouthful of salty bread. "You are too kind," she says, already chewing on the next piece of her salted pork eagerly.

Grace sits down across from her, silently watching her with her hands folded in her lap. Emma tries not to feel too self conscious as she loudly swallows her food, the greasy remnants of her meal sticky around her lips.

The warmth of the small cabin makes her feel drowsy. Her limbs are heavy, she notices as she struggles to wipe her mouth with the cloth napkin. Pup already finished her meal, and is laying down across the floor, her limbs sprawled out as she took in deep and even breaths. Emma feels envious of her for a moment; she wishes she was also asleep now, too.

It is silent in the cabin, the only sound being the scraping of her fork on the bottom of the wooden bowl. It isn't an awkward silence – in fact, it is almost soothing. After the hours of the constant clopping of the horses hooves, after the unimaginable time she spent sobbing as she was carried away from her burning world, she welcomes the quiet.

"We haven't officially introduced ourselves yet, I suppose," Grace suddenly says, a shy smile on her face. "I'm Grace."

Emma looks up from her practically empty bowl. "Well met," she says, and swallows again, offering her right hand forward for a handshake. "Emma," she offers.

Grace reaches for her hand almost eagerly, but she freezes right before she has the chance to grip it firmly. She sees a light in her eyes that suddenly seems to burns bright, a sense of understanding that almost washes over her as the blood rushes away from her face. At first, Emma is confused at the reaction, but as Grace's deep hazel eyes lock with her own, she comprehends. _Ah_, she thinks, _so now she gets the picture._

"I... the –" Grace sputters, her eyes wide. "The _Wolf Princess_?"

Emma grimaces. "Is that what they truly call me?"

"I mean, I don't – but I know some who do... and I just... the princess of the _kingdom_ is in my _home_, and she was just _drooled_ on by my little brother and is wearing some of my mother's old clothes..." She trails off once she notices that Emma is watching her, an amused smile spread over her features. The girl backtracks slightly, and stammers out, "Forgive me, er, Your Highness, I –"

"Please," Emma says quickly, cutting off Grace's tirade. "I believe Emma will be fine. You've already offered me the comfort of your home. Such a level of kindness is unprecedented from a stranger. You are Grace, and I am Emma, and that is all that is important right now."

Emma fears she may have been to harsh, but luckily Grace nods, giving her a smile. "Right."

Suddenly, the urge to yawn creeps up on Emma, and her mouth opens wide, her tongue curling almost like an animal in the sudden intake of breath, her next words disappearing, interrupted by the yawn. "Would you mind if I just..." she trails off, another yawn threatening to break through again. Emma places her hands over her open mouth to block it. Luckily, her yawn speaks more than her actual words can.

Grace catches the hint and begins to sit up, smoothing down the skirt of her dress with her hands. "Yes, yes, of course!" She reaches for Charles, who flops gently in her arms, eyes closed and his mouth agape; the toddler is already asleep.

Emma smiles up at the siblings, her eyes sliding closed as she rests her head against a flat pillow, her body curling in on itself, relishing the warmth from the fire as it seems to seep through into her bones. The pillow, while smelling foreign, smells like smoke and laughter and_ home_ – an indistinguishable smell that reminds her of her parents. She swallows back another soft sob, and her mind drifts to the thought of her family, to the blood covered Delly, to the sad blue eyes of the Huntsman, to the burning castle, the ashes of her home.

She sees a face, a cruel face of a woman with eyes black as coal, her equally dark hair curled up into an elaborate up-do. The harsh line of a scar on her upper lip becomes even more prominent when the woman smirks down at her, her red lips pulling back to expose her bright white teeth. The smile becomes feral as her hand seems to just reach into her chest, between her ribs and gripping Emma's heart.

"Oh, you foolish girl," the woman drawls, her voice almost like glass and velvet, her eyes narrowing cruelly. "Give me your heart." Her voice echoes strangely. She lifts Emma into the air by the grip on her heart, her legs flailing for purchase. The dark woman squeezes tighter, her head tilting to the left. A drop of blood falls from Emma's mouth and drips onto the woman's pale face.

And all Emma can do is scream.

**/|\**

* * *

**Hello all! Happy Holidays! Sorry if this chapter is a little late. Also, for some reason, ff won't let me respond to any of your LOVELY reviews... and speaking of reviews I HAVE OVER 200 OF THEM FOR THIS STORY OF AND MINE I'M SCREAMING I LOVE ALL OF YOU SO MUCH!**

**This is where the story gets interesting. You'll see some familiar faces (and a couple of new ones) very soon. A little fact about Charles' namesake, I named him this because the author of Alice in Wonderland's real name was Charles, and NOT Lewis Carrol, and I thought that Jefferson would find that particular inside joke funny... and it is perfectly reasonable of him to have more children once he has his family back, is it not?**

**Here's a peek at the next chapter. It's the Huntsman's POV again, seeing as all of you really enjoyed his interlude:**

**" **It takes him a moment to realize that the bright red fabric disguises the blood. He quakes at his new found and gruesome discovery.

The speech that holds the mob captive fades into the background for the hunter, a drone in the background that he pays no attention to as he stands next to the three bodies. He sways on his feet for several moments, as if the breeze carries him, and his knees give out from underneath him. He crumbles to the ground, the wind being knocked out of him as he chokes out indistinguishable sounds he cannot fathom into actual words.

The Huntsman reaches forward to the closest bundle, his hand violently trembling as his fingers grip the edges of the red fabric. Slowly, he peels back the fabric to reveal a bloody but feminine hand. Young and delicate, an unwanted voice says in the back of his mind. Emma's. Dried blood congeals underneath the long fingernails, the red flaking off of her bare arm as the Huntsman ever so gently trails his own fingers up it. Everything about this feels wrong. **"**

**Have a Happy New Year!**

**Please leave a review!**


	12. The Red Shrouds

**/|\ Paradise /|\**

* * *

**/|\**

Her screams seem to follow him no matter where he runs.

He's sprinting through the woods in an almost animalistic manner, leaping over tree trunks and rocks, his legs pushing off against the ground as he heavily pants, pushing himself further and faster. His wolf brother trails behind him, his own heavy breath sounding off behind him.

The smoke grows heavier as he reaches the main village closest to the castle; it burns his eyes as he grows closer and closer to his destination. He hears the rioting up ahead, loud yelling and shrieks and screams of the people in the kingdom. His brother behind him lets out several loud barks as he dodges a mossy tree trunk, smoothly leaping over it and landing without difficulty. The Huntsman thinks that he and his brother share the same simple mindset when they run like this together.

_Pack run. Pack run to be safe. Pack run now. _

He feels curiously empty despite the panic that is attacking his senses. Rationally, he knows that his pack is whole right now, _pack run pack run now_, he hears his own heartbeat (the one he doesn't have) and he can hear the steady thumping of his wolf brothers paws on the forest floor behind him. His pack consists of two, himself and the endangered beast behind him.

_You lie_, a snide little voice deep within his own mind spits back at him, _your pack is not whole, it is so so empty. Pack is _not _safe._

The commotion from the village spills out into the forest, he notices as he is within a mile. He sees innocent citizens running past him, families holding onto their few possessions and leading farm animals into the deep woods, away from the confusion and the fire these rebels are causing. Like an animal, he picks up their fear scent quickly, and he can tell that his brother does too from his sudden increased speed. He no longer trails behind him, hot animal breath blowing against his feet. He now run beside him evenly, his multi-colored eyes flicking up to his own with the same look the Huntsman has on his face now: panic.

He bursts into the village like he has hell nipping at his heels, his eyes wild as he takes in the vision before him. Small houses, cabins that are homes to some families, have smoke billowing out of them, their thatched roofs alight from the bright orange fire. The mob, more than a hundred individuals of all sizes, shout unidentifiable words to all, those who are willing to listen or to those who are not. Eventually, their yelling turns to one chant that makes the Huntsman's blood run cold.

"_Death to the lies! Death to the lies! Death to the lies!_"

Admittedly, it is a strange chant for them to yell out so triumphantly, victory coloring their tones, but the Huntsman is not paying attention – his eyes lock to the bundles the mob holds up above their heads, each of their hands reaching out to press at the red cloth-wrapped objects.

Bodies.

The Huntsman, a little ways away from the vicious rebels, falls to his knees, a gloved hand digging into the soil beneath him, grounding himself. Bile rises up in his throat as he lets out a strangled moan, his wolf brother lightly whimpering as he nudges his nose to his back. His bow clambers awkwardly as it hits the ground in his new position.

"My friends!" A new voice calls out to the horde, standing on the last remaining porch in the village, two black knights flanking her side. A flash of recognition digs at his brain, almost painful for him to recall, but it is quickly gone when the crowd places the bodies on the ground, haphazardly stepping over them with their rush to get to the woman. He feels breathless.

The dark woman smiles, but the scar on her upper lip turns it into a sneer. He barely resists the shiver that crawls up his spine, wracking up and down his body as he quivers from an emotion so strong his heart beats fast, faster than he has ever known. (_He doesn't have a heart anymore, doesn't he?_)

The dark woman begins to talk, her voice smooth as silk as she laments her purpose, a purpose the Huntsman does not listen to as he shuffles forward slowly, his shoulders hunching over with his brother padding behind him. The woman sounds hypnotic, otherworldly, but he tries to tune her out. He does not remember exactly at what time he stood up; it is like flashes in his head – one moment he is curled in upon himself on the ground, his hand digging into the dirt below him, and in the next flash he is making his way toward the bundles of red.

It takes him a moment to realize that the bright red fabric disguises the blood. He quakes at his new found and gruesome discovery.

The speech that holds the mob captive fades away for the hunter, a drone in the background that he pays no attention to as he stands next to the three bodies. He sways on his feet for several moments, as if the breeze carries him, and his knees give out from underneath him again. He crumbles to the ground, the wind being knocked out of him as he chokes out indistinguishable sounds he cannot fathom into actual words.

The Huntsman reaches forward to the closest bundle, his hand violently trembling as his fingers grip the edges of the red fabric. Slowly, he peels back the fabric to reveal a bloody but feminine hand. Young and delicate, an unwanted voice says in the back of his mind. Emma's. Dried blood congeals underneath the long fingernails, the red flaking off of her bare arm as the Huntsman ever so gently trails his own fingers up it. Everything about this feels wrong.

"Truth-seekers!" The dark woman continues, a cynical sort of smile across her face as her followers pause, eating up her spiel word by word. "Look at all we have accomplished in only a matter of _hours_! These... these _liars_ who have sat on the throne for so long, stripping you of your memories and your free will while they sat in their precious palace on top of their throne built of lies – _they are no more_!" Her voice drops several octaves at the last word, but her voice grows louder and louder as she calls over the thunderous yells of the crowd.

The Huntsman's hand stops at the point where the arm meets the shoulder, ignoring the cold that seems to permeate from the body into his palm. He isn't listening to the tirade, instead, his blue eyes zero in on the lock of hair that catches in the breeze from underneath the cloth. He reaches out and gently, ever so gently, he traps the hair in between his two fingers, his mouth dropping open as a line of confusion appears between his eyebrows.

The hair is black.

He releases the hair from his grip as his heart jumps up his throat, his hand already reaching toward the crease of the fabric and pulling it back to reveal the head fully. It is of a woman with almost foreign features, dried blood caked on her cheek and her long black hair trapped beneath her still form. He knows her, he finally realizes as he studies her feature, his gaze running over her face. She is the servant who delivered the princess her letter from her friend when he was dining with the royal family.

He looks back up at the crowd, blood roaring in his ears as he quickly covers the woman with the mock burial shroud, and he leans forward to check under the red shrouds to peer at the faces of the dead. None of them are the royals. Most importantly, none of them are Emma.

The Huntsman does not believe in any gods – he believes in what is real, in what is tangible to him. He believes in the trees and the wind and the pumping of his blood as he runs; he believes in the smell of the forest at night when it is the darkest before the morning dawn, and he believes in the howls of his brothers and sisters to the moon. In that moment, however, he prays to any god who is willing to listen, a mantra in his head that he repeats over and over: _Emma is alive, Emma is alive, Emma is alive. _

He believes in her.

His wolf brother nudges at his hand with his wet nose, an imploring but excited look in his multi-colored eyes. He understands the look he sees in them; it is a simple one he himself has had many times before – _pack run_.

He fights to hide the relieved smile that threatens to spread across his face. He feels so unbearably light, as if the weight of absolutely nothing is pressing down on his shoulders. He wonders if he can now fly.

The mob begins chanting something else, distracting the Huntsman from his inner monologue, and he looks up from where he was smiling so giddily at the ground to see a man and a woman crouching across from him, their hands shaking and interlocked as they take in the sight of the covered bodies in front of them. They do not seem to notice him, so the Huntsman takes this opportunity to study them.

The two seem close, he notices. The woman who whispers gently into the mans ear has long blonde hair tied back with a black bow, hair so brightly yellow it reminds him eerily of Emma. He quickly shakes that thought away (_Emma is alive, Emma is alive, Emma is alive_) and looks at the man. His brown hair flops in his face as he leans forward, his shoulders quaking. He leans forward slightly, slowly edging closer, and his new position allows him to hear what the woman is whispering.

"Shh, Jefferson, shh, it'll be okay," The woman murmurs into his ear, her forehead resting on the side of his head in a comforting gesture.

The man speaks up next, his voice hoarse. "No... we neededmagic... We needed_ her_."

Jealously stabs at the pit of his stomach, a roaring green monster climbing up his throat, but just as quickly it shows up, it disappears. Their despair strikes a chord within him. These strangers share the same pain the Huntsman had felt only mere minutes ago. The mob that seems to be out for blood begin to shout one name.

"_Regina! Regina! Regina!_"

The Huntsman jaw clenches as he debates back and forth, to tell or not to tell. After studying the two of them, he looks at the ground, having a staring match with the toes of his leather boots.

"It's not them," He finally admits, his voice hard.

The man – Jefferson, he presumes – looks up so fast it almost flicks his ridiculous purple scarf out of where he tucked it in into his orange jacket. "What?"

At this new angle, the Huntsman can take in his features. Manic blue eyes and a square jaw. "The rebels. Got. The wrong. People."

The woman snatches her hand out to quickly look under the red shrouds, her blue eyes widening as she scans each of the faces. After blinking quizzically several times, she turns to look at Jefferson, her head tilting to the side in question.

"Alice," the man breathes out, a relieved smile spreading across his face. "It's not them."

"But where –" Alice begins.

"I don't know!"

"But how –"

"I don't know!" He sounds positively gleeful at this prospect.

The two proceed to grip each other in a tight hug, laughing giddily into each others ears. It is an intimate moment, so the Huntsman chooses to look away from them and at the red shrouds at his feet. The red blood that oozes from the wounds stains the already bright red fabric a darker and more sinister color. He watches in morbid fascination, unable to look away. His thought process has shorted out, the relief of knowing that Emma is not actually dead renders him unable to function properly.

"_Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!_"

His wolf brother growls, his tail lashing back and forth as he nudges his nose more forcefully into the Huntsman's back, his meaning clear: _pack run, pack run now_. The Huntsman agrees; he would like to get far away from here, and fast.

"Wait a moment," the mad man, Jefferson says, turning away from the woman in the blue dress to fully look at him, "how do you personally know the royals?"

He remains silent as he internally battles exactly what to reveal to the strangers. "Had a run in with their daughter."

"Ah," Jefferson barks out a laugh, "The Wolf Princess. Quite a wild thing, so I've heard."

The Huntsman tries (and fails) to hide his happiness at her mock title. He says nothing in response.

Alice smiles shyly at him, her gaze stuck on his wolf brother, a curious expression on her face. "What is your name?"

"I have no name."

Jefferson snorts as he pulls himself up, offering his hand down to Alice, who accepts it gratefully and smooths out her white apron when she is also on her feet. The Huntsman warily follows their lead and also stands, clenching his fists. He sway back and forth for a moment, his pulse pounding in his ears. His wolf brother weaves himself around his feet, panting slightly.

"Don't be silly," Alice frowns, "everyone has a name."

"Well, I don't," The Huntsman grunts back in reply.

"Do you want one?"

The Huntsman barely has time to form a reply when Jefferson interrupts, "Darling, I don't think this is the right time for this."

The chanting of the mob grows louder, emphasizing the mans point.

Her frown deepens, "I suppose you're right."

His wolf brother whines lowly, his ears flat against the back of his head. His warning is clear, and the Huntsman knows it is now or never.

"Look," he says, eyeing the mob warily, "I am glad we have been spared the pain of this murder, but now I must bid you farewell."

"But where will you go?"

He remembers a girl asking this from a time that seems like years and years ago. A girl with blonde bouncing curls and a presence that radiates warmth. For a moment he almost sees her face in place of Alice's – but then it quickly dissolves. He blinks, slightly disoriented, and his blue eyes focus on the woman in front of him, the other blonde woman who is definitely _not_ Emma. The Huntsman realizes he has been quiet for longer than necessary.

"I'm going to find her," he answers.

Jefferson laughs, ignoring the harsh look the Huntsman sends him in return. "And how do you suppose you'll do that?"

He doesn't answer, his wolf brother growling a warning the group.

Alice breaks the silence, her arm reaching out to place her hand on his fur-clad shoulder in a kind gesture. "Come to our home, Huntsman, and rest. You can figure out your plan there after some warm food."

He begins protesting almost immediately. "No, I couldn't impose on you two. I have to find –"

Jefferson scoffs, "Yeah, yeah, we get it – _you will always find her._ Now stop being stubborn and join us. We can create a plan away from this riot. It's getting too violent to stay here much longer."

The wolf nudges the Huntsman's leg with his nose; he is getting impatient. _Pack run_, he can practically hear him in his thoughts, a comfortable presence in his mind. _Pack run now_.

"I have things to do first," the Huntsman finally agrees, his eyes searching for a relatively safe place to leave the smoking town. "I'll come to you tomorrow. Where do you live?"

Jefferson looks like he is about to protest at this, but his wife just links her fingers through her husbands and replies, "Just west from this village, at the bottom of the hill. It's right near the old brick well."

The Huntsman nods as he adjusts his cloak. "I am indeed familiar with the area. Until then."

He departs as silently as he came, his wolf brother trotting behind him at his heels. He is swallowed up by the haze of smoke and the darkness of the brambles and bracken in the forest. He does not look back to see if the married pair are still there.

The chants of the mob grows fainter and fainter as he jogs through his home territory, his knees bent just slightly to stay quiet as he stalks through the woods. He hears his brothers light panting from beside him, his tongue falling out of his mouth.

_Yes_, he decides, _I know exactly what I have to do_. He picks up his pace, the smoke before his eyes disappearing until his vision is clear once more.

Several hours pass, the Huntsman calculates by the suns position in the cloudy sky above him. He had walked for miles without a break since leaving the village, his feet aching with every step he took. Pain radiates up his calves, but he knows he is almost there, to _her _territory. His wolf brother senses it too, his ears laying flat against his head in apprehension. Despite feeling this edgy, he continues onward anyway.

The duo eventually reach a river, effectively dividing up the wolf territories. He listens to the babbling of the rushing water for several moments, his eyes following the small white rapids occasionally made by the fast-moving current. His gloved hand reaches into the pack he carries over his shoulder, rummaging through the worn fabric. He lets out a small triumphant noise when his fingers enclose around the hard wooden object, and he pulls it out of his pack.

The Huntsman looks at the wooden whistle in his palm, his fingers smoothing over the soft bamboo. He lets out a sigh, his eyes flickering up to look at the passing water, fiddling with the whistle. The wolf next to him lowers himself to the ground, silently waiting. He only knows one tracker capable of finding her, of finding Emma.

But to search for Emma, he first has to find the right tracker.

The Huntsman raises the whistle to his lips, takes a deep breath, and blows.

The wolf launches up from his position on the forest floor at the noise only his ears could detect, too high-pitched for the Huntsman to hear properly. His wolf brother raises his head to the sky, eyes closing, and lets out a loud and mournful howl.

The silence that follows is almost eerily quiet; the sound of rushing water seems to fade into the background. The Huntsman lowers the whistle from his lips and slips it into his pocket.

It doesn't take too long before another howl pierces the air – one just slightly farther away, perhaps a mile or two.

An answer to their own call.

The Huntsman sighs in relief, his back sliding down the thick trunk of a tree behind him until he is sitting comfortably on the ground, one hand absentmindedly reaching out to stroke the fur of his brother's back.

And for now, they will have to wait. He doesn't like feeling so helpless, and he certainly does not like asking for any kind of assistance, but he must be patient.

She is coming.

**/|\**

* * *

**I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YOU ALL! THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR THIS LATE CHAPTER! I am SO TERRIBLE SORRY! But... here it is. I hope it all meets up to your expectations. There are many more chapters after this, a lot of stuff I am looking forward too. Three things! One, would you guys mind if this goes up to M eventually? I'm not sure if I want to add smut to this story or not, but give me your feedback! Two, the private messaging system is not working for me, so sorry if I do not respond to you, I swear I am not ignoring you! **

**And three, here's a snippet of the next chapter!**

**" **"What – it's a hat," she stammers out dumbly.

Jefferson looks somewhat proud, "Indeed it is. Fine workmanship, too. Can't find them made like this anymore."

Her hands begin to shake, and she swears her vision goes red as anger swells in her chest, threatening to crawl up her throat. Her fingers squeeze the worn fabric of the hat, crushing it in her hands, her mouth opens several times, opening and closing in astonishment and rage. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jefferson gauging her reaction with one of those infuriating smiles on his face.

He taps the hat with his finger, "I will admit, the thing has seen better days, but it is the only one that works anymore. You... a friend of mine made this for me, a long time ago."

She pretends not to notice his verbal slip up, and looks up to meet his eyes. She stares at him for several moments, the ability to speak completely failing her, and it all clicks into place.

"Do you think this is a _game_ to me?" she snarls at him. " **"**

**I love you ALL so much. Really, thanks for sticking with me. **

**Please leave a review!**


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